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THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 








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FftONTSSPIECE 


THE BECKONING 
HEIGHTS 


BY 

PHOEBE FABIAN LECKEY 

M 


I will lift up mine eyes unto the Hills ^ 
from whence cometh my help'' 


Illustrated by 

ASHLEY EVELYN BAKER 



New York and Washington 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1908 


LIBRARY of 
Vwo Copies riwv'.ti.x 

APR 6 



Copyright, 1908, by 

Phoebe Fabian Leckey 


TO MY MOTHER 

GRANDDAUGHTER OF THE 
HOUSE OF GRIGSBY 
THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY 

DEDICATED 
























The author desires to acknowledge the courtesy of her 
Aunt, Mrs. William Elliott Baker, of Roswell, Ga. for 
a photograph of the latter’s home, “Barrington Hall,” of 
which the “Nunnery” is a reproduction. This old home- 
stead, one of the most beautiful and well preserved co- 
lonial residences in Georgia, stands within a stone’s 
throw of the “Bullock Mansion,” famed as the birth- 
place and girlhood home of the President’s mother, at 
whose wedding the mistress of “Barrington Hall” assisted 
as bridesmaid. 






CONTENTS 


Prelude, 

Chapter 

I 

II 

III 

IV 
V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX 

X 

XI 

XII 

XIII 

XIV 
XV 

XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

Finale, 


Page 

13 


Mo ore town, 

The “Nunnery,” 

Trespassers, 

Mysteries, and Strange Music, .... 

I Receive a Caller, 

Uncle Isham Sees a “Hant,” 

The Serpent Enters Paradise, .... 

Opossum Variations, 

Mooretown’s Social Center, 

A Prayer-Meeting, 

I am in Peril, 

I Pay Calls, 

An Encounter, 

Schoolmistress-elect, 

I Taste the Joys of Service, 

Uncle Isham Shows the Pale 

Feather, 

The Delights of a Rural Winter, . . 

A Chapter of Discoveries, 

In Which is a Sacrifice, 

Which is a Chapter of Troubles, . . 

In Which are Many Waters, 

Visiting the Iniquity, 


35 

45 

53 

67 


95 
1 12 
127 

133 

147 

160 

171 

183 

196 

213 

226 

243 

261 

278 

294 

316 

325 


I 

0 

\ 

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ILLUSTRATIONS 


“I am ‘F. F. V.’ to the marrow/’ . . . .Frontispiece^ 

facing page 

A dark-flowing river — a blue wall above, ... 32^ 

An Ancestral Home, to be mine henceforth, 38/^ 

The “Nunnery,” 42 

Watching the moon and the fairies, 46 

Dilly manages me, 48 

Sentinels of the ages, 124 ^ 

Counting the seconds, 150/ 

“Give me a switch!” I yelled, 

Plotting for my inheritance, 174/^ 

“De Ravens ain’t dead yit. Missus!” 216, 

“Oh, Patsy! — Do you?” 270 x 

“Is there blood on my fingers?” 304 


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1 




THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

PRELUDE 


“What ’s your name, boy?” 

The outline of faded shirt and jeans trousers 
was slightly shifted. That fat-bodied cherry-tree 
had, doubtless, the best of intentions, but proof 
was now at hand that cherry-trees have their limi- 
tations. 

“No use to hide,” resumed the tormentor. “I 
saw you jump behind there — I see you now.” 

Very reluctantly, the boy emerged from his 
traitor refuge and stood abashed, his eyes to earth, 
his hands buried in the blue depths of jeans trouser 
pockets, his tongue paralyzed. 

“Can ’t you talk, boy? I say, what ’s — your — 
name !” 

“Dunno.” 

The girl tossed a shock of brown curls and tilted 
a small brown nose. 

“That ’s a funny name.” 

“They call me, ‘Gogaphy’,” he ventured, bur- 
rowing his battered toe into the red-clay bank with 
great display of energy. . 

“Is that your sprinkled name?” 

“What ’s that?” 

His eyes sought hers boldly enough now, in pros- 


14 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


pect of information. He was a wayside weed 
doubtless, but weeds, even like fragile flowers, 
thirst and wither for water; and the dews of 
knowledge fell seldom on this small plant of a 
much neglected rural vicinity. 

In this his first glance, however, he saw nothing 
so formidable — no flashing eyes, just an array of 
dangling curls. But the manner of their dangling, 
and the set of the straight back, told plainly 
enough that some mistake had been made, and 
“Gogaphy,” without knowing why, began to feel 
guilty. 

“I just knew it!” she soliloquized at length. 

“What ’s ‘it’?” asked the boy, marshaling his 
fleeing wits. 

“ ‘It ’s’ what I know you never will be, that ’s 
certain,” she replied with energy, at the same time 
making much ado to leave him, though she put no 
great distance between them. 

Taking advantage of the prolonged back pre- 
sentation, Gogaphy mounted nimbly to the top of 
the worm fence by the roadside, and labored to 
screen his ungainly feet behind the friendly rails. 
He had passed in a moment of time through one 
of those ethical changes, mysterious, not to be de- 
fined, yet incalculably significant in its results for 
time and eternity. For the first time he knew that 
he had feet — objects to be viewed apart from the 
conglomerate whole of a boy’s person, and of dis- 
cernible significance. He knew, also, — and the 


PRELUDE 


15 


sudden realization well-nigh staggered him, — that 
they were out of all proportion, big, bungling, and 
hideous. 

Of another and painful fact he likewise became 
conscious. He was a social being, and as such, was 
expected to talk. But how? Of what? His feet 
grew ; the silence grew — it was audible. 

“Huh?” he ventured in desperation, uncertain 
if an interrogation were in order. 

Realizing now for the first time that a change of 
venue had taken place, she turned, and coming 
nearer, looked him over in silence. 

“Huh?” he repeated. 

“Do you mean ‘what’?” 

“I mean, what ’s a ‘sprinkled name’?” 

“No use to ’splain it; you can ’t comperhend.” 

“I wonder why, now, jest!” He sat up straight 
and squared his shoulders to repel the blow. 

“Aunt Judy says all the folks in this part of Vir- 
ginia that aren’t Presbertyrans are same as alley 
cats in the city, an — ” 

“What ’s that got to do with me?” 

“You aren’t Presbertyran, that ’s what!” 

“Maybe I am — you don’t know.” 

“ ’Deed I do, then ! Presbertyrans here are the 
quality folks, with fine clothes an’ airs an’ manners, 
an’ — , anyway, you aren’t one, ’cause you don’t 
even know what ‘sprinklin’ ’ is, and you ’re more 
like an alley cat! — Lawsy Me!” Having de- 
livered herself of this Aunt- Judy-flavored decision. 


1 6 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

the child executed a whirligig gyration, and laugh- 
ing a merry, birdlike laugh, sank down on the bank 
by the roadside. 

The boy watched her dreamily. She seemed to 
him some gaily flitting butterfly, or some fairy- 
winged princess, not to be approached, and quite 
reverently to be regarded, else she vanish, as did 
all the pure creatures of his dreams — vanish, and 
that forever, from the unlovely pathway of his 
life. 

“Why am I same as an alley cat, I wonder?” he 
soliloquized. 

“’Cause that ’s the way alley cats do when I 
come near them — scamper up fences.” 

He came down slowly from his high perch. It 
seemed the only thing to do, and with Gogaphy 
the thing to be done was soon under way. 

“If you ’d jest tell me what ‘sprinklin’ ’ is,” he 
said in the tone of one who had put to flight an 
army of Goliaths, “guess I can do that, too.” 

“You don’t do that, that ’s done to youJ* 

“What with?” 

“Water, silly.” 

“Gee I I bin done, millions o’ times!” 

He took out a much abused barlow, and again 
began excavations, this time under his battered 
finger-nails. 

“Look here, Gogaphy, and quit paring your 
nails. It ’s this way: your parents carry you to 
church an’ take you up in their arms, an’ the 


PRELUDE 


17 


preacher gets a pan of water an’ pours it on your 
head, an’ names you, an’ you ’re sprinkled, — see?” 

He closed the precious barlow and stuffed it and 
his hands down into the blue depths of oblivion. 
He had hoped she would see the knife and admire 
it; but this demonstration of results gained by a 
good half-hour at the grindstone that morning had 
been misapplied. And here he learned another 
lesson: in the artistic trimming of nails lay a 
deeper significance than the mere exhibition of 
superior blade qualities. Heretofore there had been 
no thought of results. But now — ? He slipped 
a hand to the surface and saw at a glance that his 
nails were not nails to be proud of — certainly 
nothing like the pink-curved shells that tipped the 
dainty fingers of his companion. 

“Well,” he sighed after a pause, “guess I ’ll 
never be one of ’em, ’cause I aint got no fine 
clothes an’ airs an’ things, an’ I aint got no 
parents to git me sprinkled ; but I aint worryin’ — 
Presbertyrans aint everything if they do think so ! 
Jest wait a couple o’ years ’till I ’m a man !” 

“What then?” she queried, getting to her feet 
and edging up closer to him in her eagerness. 

“Then I ’ll be mayer of Mooretown.” 

“Oh, but you can ’t.” 

“Why, I wonder?” ^ 

“Aunt Judy says the mayers an’ preserdents an’ 
2 


i8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


’fessers an’ things are all Presbertyrans in this part 
of Virginia.” 

“Who ’s Aunt Judy?” 

“She ’s my black mammy.” 

“Aint you got a white one?” 

“No.” 

There was a long pause which the boy broke. 

“I aint got none — black, white, or no kind.” 

“Well, a papa ’s just as good, — Haven’t you 
got a papa?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“Poor Gogaphy! — I ’m sorry.” Two big tears 
rolled over her cheeks, themselves wondrous big 
and round. Of the joys of a mothered life she 
knew nothing — but life without a father! 

“That ’s why I aint got no nice clothes an’ can ’t 
talk an’ pare my nails an’ — 

“You ’re nice, anyway,” she hastened to assure 
him. “You don’t pull my hair and call me ‘Fatty’, 
and ’sides, — I ’m sorry — ” 

In this moment of time the white hand of pity- 
had stretched forth, and, touching some secret 
spring in that barrier between them, had revealed a 
door through which she passed to his side, and saw 
him, one of her kind, with like capacity for infinite 
joy, but living the infinitely sorrowful life of the 
unloved — a life that might have been hers — might 
still be, were her father to leave her. 

They made a picture^ — those two — a study in 
flesh and blood for the philosopher of social ethics ; 


PRELUDE 


19 


while over them and about them the ineffable 
charm of a June day — a June day in the Valley of 
Virginia — strove to blind the sense to the under- 
lying element of tragedy. 

She was perhaps nine, short, plump of limb, and 
brown as a berry; he, several years older, slender, 
with a forehead high and white, and great gray 
eyes, radiating a thoughtful intelligence. Her 
frock of finest muslin contrasted oddly with the 
clothes of the boy. His trousers reached halfway 
between knee and ankle after the hopelessly 
plebeian style of the rural urchin ; while both shirt 
and trousers, having long since yielded up their 
pristine beauty to- the persuasiveness of home-made 
soft-soap, exclaimed their tragedy by sundry 
bright patches conspicuous at points of vantage. 
Her legs were encased in stockings of white silk; 
on her feet were the daintiest of slippers. She was 
a thing of light and sparkle; he, the heavy chrys- 
alis, whose uncouth mould and manner gave little 
promise of the shining power that slumbered 
within. 

The day was drawing to- a close. The cherry- 
tree cast long shadows down the road which sloped 
gradually to where, a few hundred yards below, a 
phalanx of forest trees reared a verdant barrier. 
Here it turned to the right and wound in and out 
among many-hued houses far down the river 
valley. 

At the top of the hill which way the girl had 


20 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


come and on the left as one descended to the river, 
a gate opened in the worm fence, and a drive led 
off from the village highway to where the white 
pillars of a mansion gleamed against a background 
of tree-trunks and dense-matted foliage. Beyond 
that gate at the hilltop, and unconcerned that it 
here parted ways from the steppings of grandeur, 
the village road labored on, descending the hill, 
climbing many more, weaving a tortuous way 
along a rocky creekside, folding about the feet of 
green, sheep-sprinkled hillocks, racing away 
through undulating meadow-lands to the north and 
west. And everywhere, along creekside and road- 
side, hiding as culprits behind hills or fearlessly 
riding their summits, — some large, red-brick or 
stone, and sadly bewailing their fading glory, 
others new and sordid in their gay, cheap paint, — 
stood the homes of the people — the people of 
Mooretown. 

From one of the humblest of these, where he 
gained a hard bed and board as general utility boy, 
Gogaphy had stolen that day with his fishing tackle 
and the undying hope that cheers the heart of the 
fisherman. The tackle — a stick of hickory to 
which was tied a string bearing a bottle cork, bullet 
sinker, and crooked-pin hook — had served no 
mean end; for, trudging up the road from the 
river, he had swung with much pride his string of 
finny thophies. And thus it was that, in contempla- 
tion of his fish, he had allowed the small stranger. 


PRELUDE 


21 


Strolling alone down the road from the park gate, 
to come upon him too suddenly to permit of an 
honorable retreat. 

He had heard the rumor of late that the old 
house, unoccupied for years and unguarded save 
by a pair of middle-aged servants, had wakened 
from its sleep and thrown open its doors to greet 
the home-coming steps of the master who had held 
its hospitality so lightly. He had heard, too, that 
a fairy form was now to be seen flitting in and 
out among the trees and shrubbery of the park and 
terrace. She was, no doubt, the fairy of his recent 
day-dreams, and that she had come to haunt her 
hidden hollows was no great wonder, for the park, 
with its acres of wildwood seclusion, had always 
seemed to Gogaphy an enchanted spot, a fairy 
realm come down tO' mortals. Often, during his 
stolen rambles about those quiet retreats, he had 
thought to see some airy form take shape before 
him, and beckoning, vanish up some ravine-bed. 
But now as he crept past the gate, guilty with a 
sense of his longing to see her, he scarcely dared 
lift his eyes above the dusty road-level. 

But now — oh, wonder! She stood there beside 
him. Already he seemed to know her well — to 
have known her long — and, for a fairy, she was 
not so fearsome. She had already laughed at him, 
raged, and shed delicious tears of sympathy — and 
she showed no eagerness to leave him I 

Just then, over in the west, an array of purple- 


22 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


gray clouds parted, and through the opening poured 
out a flood of splendor. Then a breeze, fresh from 
a romp among the white pines on the mountain-top, 
tumbled by, freighted with life for all things liv- 
ing. It nodded the plumes of the wild carrot that 
fringed the roadside; it parted the cherry boughs 
and discovered My Lady Robin, sitting secure on 
her nest in a prong, about her a wilderness of 
green with much luscious manna for the gathering ; 
it converted the topmost bough into a swing in 
which His Lordship had much ado to retain his 
dignity; it tossed the curls of the little girl, kissed 
the olive cheek to a dull blush, and, getting into 
the big eyes, fanned them into a fire of glittering 
iridescence. A quail called somewhere up the 
fence row: “Bob White — poor Bob White!” A 
straggling line of ill-favored village cows dragged 
their lazy limbs up the road toward the children. 
The girl went up to stand close beside the boy. 
He straightened up and forgot his pockets and his 
big feet. She had paid him a tribute that is not 
lost on the youngest of his sex — a tribute to his 
strength, a mute appeal for protection. But the 
cows, not even glancing their way, snailed past and 
on up the hill toward the sunset. 

The bob-white’s whistle ceased, but a whip-poor- 
will took up a weird refrain down by the river. 

The boy took his first step closer to his com- 
panion. She did not move but regarded him 
silently. 


PRELUDE 


23 


“Say,” he ventured. 

“Say what you want, Gogaphy,” she encour- 
aged. 

“I alnt got no parents to carry me to church an’ 
I don’t know no preacher, an’ — 

“Tell you what,” the girl interrupted, “I want 
a playmate dreadful, and Aunt Judy won’t let me 
play with you ’less you ’re a Presbertyran, sure 
certain; let ’s run down to the river ’fore she finds 
me, and I ’ll sprinkle you myself.” 

“I ain’t quite such a nonny as that, I hope!” re- 
plied the boy with some show of displeasure. 

“Yes, I can I — ’sides,” — she leaned close to him 
in the gravity of the issue at hand, “ — ’sides, I 
want to see the river, and they wont let me.” 

That settled it. 

“What ’ll we get for the pan? — Oh, here’s just 
the thing 1” 

She darted to the foot of the cherry-tree, and 
grabbed the bait can, in the bottom of which 
writhed certain whole or fragmentary survivors of 
an awful fate. 

“Ugh, the horrid things !” The can rolled un- 
hindered down the bank, trailing a procession of 
wrigglers in its wake. 

“’Fraid o’ worms!” The contempt in his tone 
was withering. Then selecting from the mass a 
specimen whose size was veritably snakelike, he 
held it up to her terrified gaze. 

“Here, hold yer hand.” 


24 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


She quickly suppressed a desire to flee,, using in- 
stead a woman’s subterfuge. 

“If you want to learn manners, you mustn’t 
throw snakes on ladies, Gogaphy.” 

He dropped the worm and stuffed the hand in 
his pocket. 

“And you mustn’t cram your hands in your 
pockets, neither.” 

“Why don’t you ask my name?” she panted, as 
they raced down the road to the river. 

“I dassent.” 

“I ’ve got eight: ‘Martha, Mart, Mottie, Mat, 
Mattie, Pattie, Pat, Patsy’ — any ’ll do; I get 
’em all.” 

“And that isn’t all,” she continued, as the boy 
was unable to answer; “our F. F. V. is ‘Grigsby’.” 

“What’s an ‘F. F. V.’?” he asked quickly. 

Patsy sighed. 

“I ’m ’fraid you ’ll never be one, Gogaphy, — a 
First Family.” 

“Reckon I wont when I aint got no family — 
first or last.” 

“Wonder if it ’s any use to sprinkle you then? 
Seems like Aunt Judy says the Presbertyrans are 
all First Families — I ’ll ask her.” 

“Jest sprinkle me, anyway. It might help.” 

“Gogaphy’s a funny name,” she began after a 
pause. 

“’Taint my name.” 

“You said so.” 


PRELUDE 


25 


“I didn’t.’’ 

“You—! ’scuse me, Gogaphy,” corrected the 
little aristocrat. 

“But I did.” \ 

The child beamed on him. 

“You ’re Improving right along, Gogaphy. 
That ’s manners.” 

“Manners!” 

“Certainly: manners Is when you’d rather con- 
terdlck yourself than dispute a lady’s word. I 
know what you said; you said: “They call me 
Gogaphy !” 

Revolving this problem In his head he forgot 
the question before him, and they walked on In 
silence. 

They had now reached the river, flowing dark 
and sullen beneath Its dense-arching canopy. At 
this point not a ripple moved Its surface; but 
farther down to the right, where the stone but- 
tresses and rotting timbers of an old dam opposed 
its way, it seemed for an Instant to draw Its breath, 
to gather Its latent strength, then to swoop with 
hoarse and deafening roar onto the patient rocks 
beneath. Its distant, sullen boom, that woke to 
defiant answer some spirit dweller of the moun- 
tain peaks beyond, hushed to silence the lesser 
sounds about them. 

How still It was! The whip-poor-will uttered 
its cry somewhere near them; then a shadowy 
thing swept by, close to the ground, almost touch- 


26 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ing the frock of snowy muslin. A river bass, 
gleaming as an armored knight in a shaft of sun- 
shine, leaped from his buried fortress — some rash 
minnow or wandering beetle might then have told 
of the one-time sensations of a truant prophet of 
old. Then there came a flapping of huge wings, a 
hoarse scream, — and a blue heron, rising from a 
bleaching snag far out to midstream, wedged his 
awkward flight up the tree-flanked river corridor. 
Across the river, overlooking it, the village, and 
the far-stretching valleys, the Blue Mountains 
lifted their heads, about which gleamed the re- 
flected tints of western cloud glory. But over their 
intersecting gorges hung black shadow-fringes, and 
deep gloom was falling upon the river. 

“Say, Gogaphy,” and Patsy’s scarce audible 
voice trembled, “I ’m scared.” 

“’Taint nothin’ goin’ to hurt yer; I aint scared 
o’ bull bats an’ cranes — how about the sprinklin’?” 

“Oh yes I Get the water.” 

“It’s mighty nasty lookin’,” commented the min- 
ister pro tern., eyeing the can of dark, fish-scented 
liquid dubiously. 

“Pshaw!” grunted the boy. “I ’ve drunk it 
millions o’ times.” 

“I can ’t sprinkle you and hold you too.” 

“Guess when a fellow ’s got no parents he ’s got 
to stand on his own legs, aint he?” 

“Gogaphy, there ’s a drawback,” Patsy said 
anxiously, her boldness in the faith wavering. 


PRELUDE 


27 


“Why don’t yer sprinkle me, Mattie Pattie?” 

“You ’ve never said catechism, have you 
Gogaphy? It ’s awful.” 

“I ’ll git a crick in my neck if yer don’t git a 
hustle on, Mattie Pattie.” 

“I can ’t think of a name.” 

“’Spose you use the one that belongs to me — it ’s 
John Grigsby Lovelace. The boys call me 
Gogaphy, ’cause I beat ’em so bad in gogaphy an’ 
my other books.” 

“That middle name sounds right much like an 
F. F. V., doesn’t it?” exclaimed Patsy, encour- 
aged. 

“Jest ’cause it ’s same as yours, I reckon.” The 
suspicion of a sneer in his voice was lost on Patsy. 

“Yes, isn’t it funny,” she answered. “Here, 
bend down so I can reach.” 

Just then a carriage, unnoticed, drove round the 
angle of the road. 

“Patsy, my little daughter!” exclaimed some one 
inside. 

“Oh, Papa, Papa!” screamed Patsy, dropping 
the tilted can onto the bowed head, and speeding 
as on wings to her father without so much as a 
backward glance. 

Gogaphy watched the carriage until it stopped 
at the gateway on the hilltop. Then he sighed. 

“Guess I ’m sprinkled anyway,” he said, mop- 
ping his face and head with the faded shirt sleeve. 


28 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“\yonder what I must do now ’cause I ’m one 
of ’em?” 

He looked down at his uncouth garments and 
scarred feet. 

“Guess I ’ll walk down past her gate to-morrow, 
anyway; and next month I ’ll pick huckleberries on 
the mountain an’ buy me some shoes.” 


How often, through that long, blissful summer, 
they met, and under what difficulties! With the 
boy it was a thing of little matter, for there were 
none to guard his young and groping footsteps. 
But the path of the little Patsy was paved with 
thorns. 

Aunt Judy’s notions concerning the respective 
relations of the “quality” and the unqualified were 
not chimeric, and she bore in her ebon countenance 
two very watchful eyes. Then there was Cousin 
Sarah, blue of blood as the coat of the great moun- 
tains when they stand forth in the clear sky of 
evening. She could present quite as stiff a back- 
bone likewise when necessity prompted, and though 
she sometimes napped — for which assistance of 
Providence Patsy was often grateful, — still she be- 
came not seldom a stern tribunal of justice, for she 
was paid a goodly sum to guard the steps of the 
turbulent Patsy. 

Sometimes it was a sly peep through the fence 


PRELUDE 


29 


that marked the thus-far line, with a nod and an 
exchange of favors — a can of huckleberries for a 
toil-worn catechism, a sucker for a book of hymn 
tunes — while often a well-known step sounded, ap- 
proaching rapidly from the mansion. 

But best of all were the steal-offs down through 
the park to the river. Then what fun ! 

He showed her in the ravine back of the house a 
whole colony of woodchucks — their burrows, 
rather, for woodchucks are sly codgers. She 
learned from him that the assemblage of buzzards 
over on the pine cliff after sunset was due to the 
fact that buzzards, like some children, are cowards 
if alone after bed hours. He taught her the sweet 
secret of the sugar maple, the elder bushes suffer- 
ing much to supply material for drain-pipes. To- 
gether they dug the sweet-root — the tender sprouts 
of the hickory. Together they followed the un- 
deviating course of the bee from a clover feast in 
the meadow to the hollow limb of an oak down by 
the river. For this secret, a fisherman rowed them 
across to where a gulch led up between two' bold 
ridges. And here one day, some distance up the 
gorge, they found a hole that reached far back 
into a wall of rock, and about this hole the unmis- 
takable signs of Reynard: many red hairs were 
about, also many feathers and the scattered re- 
mains of unfortunate cacklers; and once they had 
a glimpse of a small fluff-ball fleeing in at the cjoor 
of his residence. This secret they guarded well 


30 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


lest some avenger of the deaths of many innocents 
spare not mischievous lives. 

And here, in the deep, cool river, Patsy first 
tasted the blisses of angling: hooking her own 
plump leg instead of a fish; tangling her line in 
some overhanging branch at every possible oppor- 
tunity; imbedding the hook in submerged tree- 
trunks, and losing both hook and line, or else 
bringing to the surface — not a water monster — ^but 
some yards of dead tree branch or slimy river 
grass. What patience she displayed, and how it 
was unrewarded! Once only she landed a sucker, 
once a sun-perch, once a turtle, and once a writhing 
eel from which she fled in horror, but upon which 
her companion pounced as upon a treasure. As for 
the bass, they are much too wise to waste energy 
on a run with such an unaristocratic morsel as a 
mere earth worm in prospect. 

But the hidden secret of anglers was with 
Gogaphy. For every nibble at hers, his hook 
landed a victim of nO' mean proportions. His 
bottle cork seemed drawn by some river deity, 
some enemy of the finny tribe, to the exact spot 
below which waited an eager and innocent sacrifice. 
His perseverance was phenomenal, and talk he 
would not, for Gogaphy was no bungler. 

Sometimes, as they sat thus in silence, a king- 
fisher would come skimming upstream as a blue 
streak of flame against the green background, and, 
sitting for a moment upon the limb of a dead syca- 


PRELUDE 


31 


more, would regard them critically. Then a basso 
of the river-frog opera troop would sometimes 
startle them, himself, and the whole lot of his 
watery neighbors by an over-hurried descent from 
his stage beside them into his deep refuge, — an un- 
necessary precaution, but no one after hearing his 
quavering gutturals can deny him to be of a 
nervous temperament. 

But one morning Patsy waked to find that the 
flowers had withered in the night, struck down by 
their enemy, the Hoar Frost. Downy snowflakes, 
escaping from the opening pods of the milkweed, 
scurried away on the breeze down toward the river. 
The chestnut-trees had cast their fruit in a night. 
The mountains were doffing their cool, green sum- 
mer gowns for coats of warm russet, red, and yel- 
low ; and though the sun shone hot at midday, and 
the air of the valleys quivered with undulating 
waves of heat, at evening a chilling wind swept 
down from the hilltops — summer was dying. 

Already the trunks had been packed. Patsy, her 
father, and Cousin Sarah would soon be off for the 
city. 

How the child had implored her father, press- 
ing wet cheeks to his, to- leave the hateful city with 
its hard bricks and herds of human animals, and 
come to live here, where for generations their 
people had lived, died, and were buried, desiring 
nothing more in their living than the eternal peace 
jabout them ; and in their death to lie at the feet of 


32 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


those heights to which in life they lifted their eyes, 
worshipping toward those Higher Hills from 
whence their help came. 

But plead as she would, the father would kiss 
her and say that it could not be. And thus was she 
to cherish but in memory for years the vision of a 
deep, green wildwood with its teeming denizens 
of a dark-flowing river, of a Blue Wall standing 
guard above, and of a boy in faded garments, 
whose bruised feet had guided her, and whose hand 
had opened to her the gate into that Paradise of 
childhood — the Elysian fields of Nature. 


The carriage had reached the angle of the road 
at the foot of the hill, when Patsy’s watchful eye 
spied a dejected heap of brown and blue sitting 
upon a log by the river. Her arms went quickly 
about her father’s neck. 

“Oh, Papa ! please let me out one minute — ^just 
a minute ! I want to tell — I want to see — oh. 
Papa!” 

The carriage stopped. A small figure sped 
through the bushes, and a hand was laid on the 
bowed head. Gogaphy was crying, and tears were 
a disgrace in his eyes. 

“Never mind, Gogaphy, I wont forget you, and 
you mustn’t forget me neither. I brought you an- 
other catechism. It ’s Cousin Sarah’s — I stole it.” 




FACING }2 


> 

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PRELUDE 33 

“Fve learned it by heart, backwards and for- 
wards,” blurted the boy. 

“Well — good-bye !” 

He dared not lift his red, swollen face to hers. 
Then she gave him her hand. 

“Yon can kiss it once, Gography, since you can’t 
talk — just once, I said!” for the boy had seized 
the small hand eagerly, and pressed his hot lips 
again and again to the cool skin. His tears fell 
thick upon it. 

“I wouldn’t — be — such — a — fool,” he stam- 
mered, “but now I haven’t anybody (Gogaphy’s 
grammar was much improved of late) to care — 
what becomes — of me; I haven’t any parents — T 
haven’t any friend but you, and now — you ’re^ — 
gone — I” A violent fit of sobbing choked him. 

“Patsy!” called her father. 

Then she stooped over the bowed head and 
kissed the white forehead. 

“Poor Gogaphy!” she said, weeping in sym- 
pathy. “I wont forget you — never, never! and 
some day I ’ll come back.” 

She was gone. 

The boy listened to the rolling wheels until their 
sound was lost far down the valley. Then he 
turned wearily, and threw himself face down on a 
cool moss-bed. 

Hours after, a mutter of thunder roused him 
from a heavy slumber. He stood up blindly and 


3 


34 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


looked off to where the wall of rock interposed its 
barrier between him and an unknown Beyond, 
while his hand toyed with a chain of gold that lay 
about his neck beneath the shirt band. Then a 
gleam of glory came down from a gold-crowned 
peak and fell on Gogaphy’s face. It was pale and 
the lips were set. But the light of a great purpose 
shone in the fine young eyes — the Heights were 
beckoning. 


CHAPTER I 


MOORETOWN 

Have you not heard of Mooretown? Then you 
must be young. Had you reached your three-score 
line, you might better have known of her, for she 
is a thing of the past, though she knows it not. 
She is a relic of Virginia’s most ancient and honor- 
able aristocracy, an aristocracy the faint essence of 
which, here and there in dim, dusty corners, eman- 
ates from the person of some long-lingering rem- 
nant of those days of forgotten glory, just as the 
faint aroma from a withered petal pathetically 
suggests the fragrance of the full-blown rose. 

And yet Mooretown is a town in truth by virtue 
of the following: 

Two stores which for the world resemble two 
oblong goods-boxes left over from the days of the 
shipping of brocades, buckles, and perukes over 
seas. In these are kept calicoes and woolens of 
an ugliness past imagination; spools of colored 
thread such as one never matches in fabric of what 
shade soever; little mugs mottoed in anticipation 
of sad separations; yellow shoe-boxes, whose in- 
mates may have come with the afore-mentioned 
brocades and perukes; leaky barrels of kerosene 
sitting in lover-like proximity to kegs of pale but 


3 ^ 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


vigorous-smelling butter; vases of gaily decorated 
glass; sugar, salt mackerel, calomel pills, bacon, 
stick and gum candy, and small white china dogs 
and cats to sit on company mantel-shelves admiring 
the glass vases. 

An inn; the building, a large brick one, being 
once the home of Colonel Alexander McCorkle, 
and now kept by Mrs. Carrie Martin, called “The 
Cuckoo” hereabouts because of a certain indus- 
trious propensity for prying into the secrets of 
other nests than hers. 

A post office of some three-dozen pigeon-hole 
capacity. Here the mail is collected each morning 
and carried over ten miles of unpleasant road in a 
ramshackle cart, the old negro driver of which gets 
scarcely enough pay to replace the loss by death 
each year of one or more tuckered-out horses. 

Then Mooretown has four churches, whose 
combined membership scarcely fills the only conse- 
quential church in the village. This multiplicity of 
churches seems a sad necessity, however, for it is 
not meet that a Second Family sit beside a First 
Family in worship, and there seems also to be a 
rank of Third Families so large that one building, 
of their pattern, will not accommodate them. 

The length and breadth of Mooretown, too, is 
worthy of notice. In the days when my father 
played at fox-and-geese with other small village 
aristocrats, the town limit was from Miller’s hay- 
barn on the Willow Creek road to the Dunkard 


MOORETOWN 


37 


meeting-house three miles up Moore’s Creek. 
Now there is some dispute as to its extent. Some 
claim, the new sawmill far down the river and 
Squire Perkins’ fine home five miles up Moore’s 
Creek. But the sawmill is of an improved order 
and to be regarded suspiciously; while Squire Per- 
kins is a newcomer and by no means First Family, 
though he could buy Mooretown with her shops 
and crumbling relics of grandeur, many times over. 

But Mooretown is so Virginian and so aristo- 
cratic! There is so little of the strenuous life 
about her, and such a pervading aroma of dead 
ancestors ! One can easily forgive her loose, long- 
drawn-out habits of life. 

Neither will I strive, as the Judge’s wife strives, 
to disturb that halo of restfulness that hovers over 
her, by the introduction of new ideas and meth- 
ods. For the love of peace, I say, let there be one 
spot of rest on Earth! Let Mooretown her- 
self go abroad and learn, as I have learned, of the 
seething fermentation of life in the world without. 
Soon she will flee back, as I have done, to rest her 
nerve-racked soul, nestling close under the shad- 
owing mountains as the traveler rests in the shel- 
ter of some rock in a desert land. 

But why, you ask, have I fled to Mooretown 
for refuge? I do not resent the question. It is 
quite in order, and has been for weeks. But an- 
swer it I cannot now and here, for I am not one to 
reveal things out of season. You will know soon 


38 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


enough. I will, however, tell you what I must of 
myself — which is not agreeable to me — and of my 
journey on that day three weeks ago, when I 
waved a cheerful good-bye tO' lifelong comrades, 
to diminishing spires, and busy smoke-stacks, and 
turned my face eagerly toward the Blue Mountains 
of Old Virginia. 

I had been, during my whole past life, as it were 
an amphibian, existing for the greater portion of 
the year one among myriads of tiny, insignificant 
creatures upon the restless, throbbing waves of city 
life. But, though tossed by billows of convention, 
and hurled upon hidden rocks of disaster, through 
it all there had beamed upon me, shining bright 
through the haloing distance of years, the memory 
of a summer — a summer now seventeen years 
dead — dreamed out in the seclusion of an ances- 
tral home, a home to be mine henceforth by choice 
as well as by inheritance. 

Left an orphan in early youth, brotherless and 
sisterless, my life had been one of unwonted free- 
dom; and, save for cousins of the fourth degree, 
whose unchristian remarks about me often reached 
a like degree of intensity, I had been gloriously in- 
dependent. No, not independent either, for that 
monster. Conventionality, had forced my consent 
to the presence of a companion. She, or rather, 
they, had been selected from time to time from 
among unencumbered kinswomen, and had opened 
up an easy and useful channel for the communica- 



PACING 38 






MOORETOWN 


39 


tion of evidence concerning my daily walk to other 
interested relatives. At the time of which I am 
to write my cousin, Peggy Jane Chandler, was 
with me — but of her you will hear more hereafter. 

My friends had grieved me sorely on that morn- 
ing in early October when they stood about the car 
window while the train was puffing to be off with 
me and my worldly possessions. They showed 
little of that enthusiasm over my approaching 
felicitous change that I felt was due me; in fact 
they seemed to pity me. But I regarded them 
with the commiseration that they deserved, in- 
vited them to visit me in my mountain exile, and 
left them without a tear. 

And why should I not be happy? Was I not 
shaking off forever the old life that, with all its 
glamour, had proved to me a hollow mockery? 
Was I not soon to realize that which had formed a 
picture in my brain — a winter, henceforth my life 
of winters — in the country? My heart bounded at 
the prospect, and the train seemed to crawl, so 
eager was I for a sight of the mountains. 

At something past midday we reached Harper’s 
Ferry of John Brown fame. Here we entered the 
Valley. At once the stuffy atmosphere clinging 
about us since morning gave place to perceptibly 
cooler, more bracing air, air that seemed carefully 
sifted of infecting germs and teeming with ozone 
and intoxication. From the rocky fastnesses of 
the Ferry the train dashed out and up, over low- 


40 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


lands dotted with cornstalk wigwams, while fur- 
ther back rose verdant foothills flecked with fat 
herds and the homesteads of the farmers, lying 
white and peaceful amidst much plenty. By our 
side flowed placidly the shining Shenandoah, 
“Daughter of the Stars,” as the Indian warrior 
called her; and where now he rests his tomahawk 
and his mouldering bones under some forgotten 
mound beside her, the engine bore us on, while she 
passed us tranquilly by, keeping watch, as for cen- 
turies she has done, over his mound and the restless 
tramp of civilization that broke his proud spirit. 

Then a lonely peak stood out from the blue mist 
and doffed his cap. Heigh-ho, old fellow, there 
you are ! There stand two lovers side by side, 
while against them nestle smaller ones — their 
children — numerous and hardy as the sons of the 
farmers. How beautiful they are in their October 
glory! The brilliant red of the dogwood; the 
fiery sumac and maple; the crimson gum-tree, the 
yellow hickory, the russet oak; and the eternal 
green of the pine, as he, immortal among trees, 
and longing for higher things, reaches up and up 
toward Heaven — home of Immortals. 

In the meantime we made many stops. We 
changed cars to all points of the compass, and in 
changing, wrought sorrow to a mother alone with 
three children under the age of four, to a spinster 
with many bundles and more nerves, and to three 
wives who were frantic for fear their husbands 


MOORETOWN 


41 


would be left — or would not be, I could never 
guess which. There was a repeated demand, and 
consequent scuffling for tickets; that caused me 
much sorrow, as I could never find mine and the 
continual hunt for it gave me no time to nap. 

I noted with some surprise that, as we made our 
way up the valley, and stopped at innumerable 
cooplike stations, everyone who entered the car 
seemed to know everyone within. Many and fond 
relationships, too, seemed to exist. Uncle John 
entered with Aunt Sally, and half of the car’s in- 
mates proceeded to overwhelm them. Cousin 
Mary kissed Cousin Abner through the window; 
while Aunt Susan came near to being left, so much 
was there to be related of the whooping cough and 
the new minister to the nieces on the platform. 

These demonstrations I hailed with joy; they 
were so democratic, so Virginian! Considering 
myself now Virginian and democratic, I looked 
about me for relatives to embrace, and with whom 
to discuss existing conditions. I saw none, though 
a youth of good appearance seemed prone to offer 
some exchange of privileges. He bore no family 
resemblance to me, however, for he was of the 
carrot hair and coloring, while I am quite the op- 
posite. Perhaps he was no First Family. Con- 
sidering this, and what I was to be forthwith, I 
gave him a cold shoulder, and gave myself to the 
contemplation of Nature. 

It should be mentioned here that I did not travel 


42 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


alone. Other members of my family were en route 
with me, though, compelled by an unsympathetic 
train official, they traveled just ahead. I must in- 
troduce them: 

Topsy, an ill-tempered fox terrier, who would 
not be left; nor could a friend be found willing 
to accept him in loving remembrance. 

Chica, a bit of maltese fluffiness that I call 
“Puss” because, when I call her name to strang- 
ers, I am always asked to repeat it. 

Jed and Jemima, snow-white of plumage, 
Christian in name. Mormon in faith, Plymouth 
Rock by breed, and aristocratic. Jed’s reputation 
as a politician soon spread among the trainmen 
and newsboys. His stump speeches were reported 
wonders in eloquence and volume. (I hope he 
did well for his party and will cast his vote for 
the right man. I presume he has a vote. The law 
debars “women, children, and idiots,” but it says 
nothing against political roosters.) 

Besides these members of my family, from 
whom I was unwillingly separated, was Dilly. 
She rode just ahead in the Jim Crow, and is my 
best friend. Some things are inscrutable to me, 
and one is that Dilly, who loves me and to whom 
I confide my ailments, that Dilly, who bosses me, 
should ride in the Jim Crow — perhaps some of 
them are not Dillys. 

Late that afternoon, as we neared the terminus, 
I stood on the rear platform watching the sunset. 





Tlie “Nvinnery.” 


t 


FACING 42 



MOORETOWN 


43 


Awed by the contemplation, I pictured fairy dwell- 
ings among those crimson and purple cloud castles, 
or the homes of angels. And I seemed to see 
those shining ones take shape and float upward, 
beckoning. 

Suddenly I knew that some one stood near, 
watching me, not the sunset. By way of intro- 
duction, I stammered something about the glory 
of mountain sunsets; whereupon she cooled my 
ardor by remarking, 

“We ’re used to those things. I tell by ’em 
when it ’s time to slop the hogs.” 

I could only murmur something of the joy of 
slopping hogs by glorious sunsets. Then she asked 
if I was from the city; adding to my weak con- 
fession, that she thought so, in a tone of voice that 
quite humbled me. 

Uncle Isham, an ancient retainer of the Grigs- 
bys, was to meet me with my surrey. As the lo- 
comotive came to a stop, I spied his gnarled fig- 
ure, holding my prancing chestnuts by the bits. 
With such a home-coming swelling of heart as I 
had never before felt I bounded from the train 
and with a glad cry ran toward him. 

But here something happened. 

As I hurried around the station, an old man, 
grizzled and misshapen as I could see him in the 
evening shadows, hobbled out from under the pro- 
jecting eaves, and, stopping in front of me, glared 
into my face. Then there leaped into his eyes a 
gleam of recognition, and savage exultation over- 


44 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


spread his face. As I drew back shuddering, he 
grinned; his small eyes glittered in their shaggy 
setting, and he hobbled back and left me, a cold 
fear gripping my heart at this my first home 
greeting. 


CHAPTER II 


THE ^^NUNNERY^^ 

You must leave the road that folds itself about 
the village at the top of the hill, pass through a 
rickety gate in the rail fence, and penetrate some 
three hundred yards into the woods to your right, 
to find the Nunnery. 

That I should have given this rather uncalvin- 
istic name to the honored seat of a Valley Presby- 
terian family, has been the source of some useless 
comment among the cousins. My hope is that 
some of them will understand the significance of 
the name and direct their movements accordingly. 

The house, built in the regulation colonial style, 
is square in the main portion, roomy, wide of hall, 
and redolent of forebears and lavender. A carven 
staircase of oak mounts, with many landings, to 
the attic. On the first of these landings stands my 
great-grandfather’s clock, as irascible and as un- 
certain of movement as its owner would have been 
had he, too, remained inactive operation until now. 
A veranda, many-columned, surrounds the house 
on three sides, and is most dear to me. There is 
nothing about my Nunnery to suggest defense 
unless it be these sentinel-looking pillars, that, 
reaching from veranda to roof, have stood guard 


46 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


over my people for four generations. From early 
childhood I recall them, towering ghostly white in 
the light of the summer moon, and casting long 
shadows, very ominous and silent. On mild nights 
I used to sit by the hour watching the moon and 
the fairies that seemed to me to slide up and down 
her mystic rays, playing at hide-and-seek behind 
the stately columns. Here, too, in a spirit of weird 
fancy, I loved to sit and read ghost stories in the 
mellow light, or recite to the moon and her fairies 
those eerie ballads, “The Ancient Mariner,” 
“Christabel,” and “The Skeleton In Armour.” 

To' the left of the veranda lies the old rose gar- 
den, out of which my grandmother, Patsy, was 
wont to cull rare, sweet-breathed roses, treading 
with satin-slippered feet between beds of mari- 
golds and asters, her skirts kissed by the breath of 
lavender and thyme. I have great hopes for this 
garden, for flowers love me. And how I toil with 
them, while I am not able to sweep, to dust, nor 
even to sew, counting it not labor for the love I 
bear them I 

In front, and to* the right of the veranda, is a 
small yard, terraced, and girt about by a low wall 
of stone half hidden by honeysuckle and Virginia 
creeper. In this wall is a depression where steps 
lead down into the Jungle — my most cherished 
possession. Not even the Nunnery itself do I ex- 
cept; for in it are passed many restless nights, 



“Watching the moon and the fairies.” 


FACING 45 






47 


THE “nunnery” 

while the days are all too short to develop the 
blissful possibilities of my Jungle. 

It is one tangle of wild-vine, deadwood, and 
underbrush over all its many acres; and over this 
confusion is spread, as if to guard its sacredness, 
a vast forest roof, under whose eaves will be much 
love-making by feathered fops when green blinds 
are again hung up at tree windows next spring. 
I, too, will see to it that no ax be laid upon my 
Jungle. As if a senseless implement of iron, of 
man’s device, could beautify in aught the work of 
the Mother of all things beautiful! What if the 
path be hidden by training grape, dewberry vine, 
and the over-branching laurel and dogwood I 
What if the chestnut, the locust, and the flowering 
catalpa shake down their useless limbs and faded 
garments in autumn I Will these dead not rise 
again in a renewed vigor of the exhausted soil, and 
thereby in greener leaves and more seductive 
fragrance? I am Nature’s child, and when were 
she and the world ever on speaking terms 1 Gath- 
ering her treasures close to her mother heart, from 
before man’s foot she flees in terror. Away from 
her arching dome he hides himself behind cold, 
dead stone. Her carpet of velvet green he delves 
that he may place for himself habitations of brick 
and mortar. Her forest canopy he fells, sending 
her frightened denizens to other lands for shelter. 
It is my pride that she shows herself friendly to 


48 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


me, and that her wild children flee not in terror 
at my approach. 

In yonder hawthorn bush at the turn of the 
path, you may discover the lattice-work house of 
My Lady Catbird; her summer residence it is, 
for even now she is getting together her belong- 
ings for the slipping away. His Lordship sits 
there on that bare locust. He knows he is safe, 
and if you but listen, he may favor you with a 
whole comedy in opera. And yonder, in that 
green covert, that brown prima donna of birds is 
wont to pour out her arias of celestial rapture. I 
came upon her there once — shy lyrist that she is, 
simple in dress, and, as the truly great, unassuming 
in manner. 

And the bob-whites, for whose pasture I have 
ordered that an adjoining field of stubble be left, 
have learned that the Jungle is to be sacred to 
their hiding. Poor little innocent fellows! If 
ever a sportsman follows them into this their 
refuge, I will not spare him. 

During these weeks in which I have been living 
at the Nunnery I have done little work. Work 
is not one of my innate, compelling principles; and 
here Carlyle and I differ, for Carlyle preached 
work and was miserable, while I do nothing and 
am happy. Uncle Isham, Aunt Judy — his wife — 
and Cousin Peggy Jane do' the work, while I man- 
age. Dilly manages me. 

The managing I have done has been to keep 



“ ‘ Dilly manages me.’ ” 


FACING 48 






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THE “nunnery” 49 

out of doors, drinking in the peace and quiet rest- 
fulness diffusing from the full maturity of Nature 
about me. I seem to have waked up suddenly 
from^ a nightmare, and to have discovered myself 
basking in the full blisses of Eden. I seem to have 
been ushered into my kingdom, the kingdom of 
my lost childhood, lost by years of artificial hor- 
rors, brought back by one breath of fragrant wood 
stretches, by one glad rush out into the frosty 
crispness of an October morning. I dance in pure 
delight, and hug great tree-trunks, who, because 
of their dignity and weight of years, respond by 
not the slightest shrug of their shoulders. The 
chincapin, sassafras, and cedar bushes slap my 
face familiarly, and I feel no resentment. I 
gather hawberry clusters of ebon blackness, and 
deceive myself into an enjoyment of their nasti- 
ness. I find a stray violet hid away in some spot 
on the brookside, and kiss it to death for sheer 
love of it. A single hepatica, too, deceived into 
life by a traitor breeze whispering of spring, some- 
times lifts to mine a gentle, tear-dimmed eye of 
blue, and so do anemones, fragile as city maidens. 

I lie on fragrant moss-beds, face upwards, while 
over me is kept up an industrious clatter among 
the leaves of the beeches. The oak, for some un- 
known offense, pelts me with his cupped fruit and 
cast-off clothing, while squirrels scuttle down trees 
to demand favors. I stroll through great alley- 


4 


50 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

ways of trees, and am reminded of some ancient 
votary led on through a corridor of Corinthian 
columns to the shrine of sacrifice. I sit on some 
mound, the grave of a tree, perhaps, or — ^who can 
tell? — the tomb of some fallen hero of a van- 
quished race. Poor warrior! How free was his 
life and how he loved it! Now his race is scat- 
tered, his life forgotten. But his unbroken spirit 
to-day plies its loved employment in the glades of 
his Happy Hunting-Grounds. I seem to hear his 
flying footsteps ; and I wonder if his bones still lie 
clutching his tomahawk, or have they long since 
yielded up their dust to the dust of their cherished 
sod? Far-off, sweet melodies fall on my ear; 
odors of incense float over; bright wings speed 
flashing by; and I start as swift feet rush past 
and scramble up scraggy tree-trunks — Ugh, you 
little brute ! you frightened me. — There were 
passing before me, to the air of the grand march 
of the centuries, the tragedies of the primeval 
forest; a glade in the depths of an awful wilder- 
ness ; the stealthy tread of the savage ; the pioneer, 
carving with rude ax from the wilderness about 
him a home for a numerous progeny; the beast 
of prey, lurking in dark places to pounce upon his 
victim. Had this morning been that morning, 
had I been that victim! A crouch, head down- 
ward, a gleam of green eyeballs, a silent spring, a 
roar in my ear, the fang in my neck, and I had 


THE “nunnery” 51 

known in death the mysteries of that life in which 
I now blindly grope. 

Thus have I lived out of the house while much 
has gone on within it, — scrubbing, papering, paint- 
ing, and like work, such as is necessary to the liv- 
ing of life, yet scarcely to be lived through. A 
furnace in the cellar has conquered the cold clam- 
miness of the country hallway. An acetyline gas 
plant has replaced the dim unstableness of lamps. 
Electric bell-wires afford possibilities for tight- 
rope walking to many rats (already the loud 
clanging of these bells has disturbed my night’s 
rest not once nor twice) . And I also have a bath, 
for, though rural, I purpose to be clean. 

The furniture, what little I had (and what 
proved to be about twenty wagon-loads), hauled 
over ten miles of road typically Virginian, together 
with certain other pieces of great age, unsteadiness 
of limb and correspondent value^ — left me with 
the homestead, — had now been set in order. The 
woodshed was stacked roof-high with logs of oak 
and hickory for the sitting-room grate. A burst- 
ing bin of coal waited in the cellar for the furnace 
and the kitchen range. Potatoes and apples 
peeped from their crowded compartments in the 
storage cellar; while mounds scattered about over 
the garden marked the resting places of beets, of 
turnips, and of cabbages. In the wine cellar were 
rows on rows of jars, marked in hieroglyphics 
known only to Aunt Judy. She has been at work 
on the contents of those jars since June; and, judg- 


52 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ing from the barrels of sugar she has had me 
order, there must be enough sweetness in that wine 
cellar to take the bitterness out of the lives of all 
Virginians. 

And now, come on King Winter, when you will ! 
There is grain and hay for the horses and for But- 
tercup, the Jersey. There is food for us all, and 
shelter from the tempest. There are cob pipes and 
much tobacco for Uncle Isham, quilt patches for 
Aunt Judy, and abundant needle gymnastics for 
Cousin Peggy; there are friends for Dilly; Topsy 
has a coon dog — adopted against my consent — 
and Uncle Isham’s lean hound. Driver, besides a 
whole retinue of starved dog-neighbors; Puss has 
friends of every size, shape, color, and vocal ca- 
pacity; and, as for me, I have shelves on shelves of 
them, the dearest, truthfulest friends one ever 
had. I turn to their covers and forget the world 
and my troubles as I delve deep into those store- 
houses of many minds, and bring up thence rich 
and rare treasures. 


CHAPTER III 


TRESPASSERS 

One morning late in October, having heard the 
thunderings of war down in the Jungle toward 
the river I sallied forth, ostensibly to gather nuts, 
but in reality to wreak vengeance on some invader, 
storming the sacred percincts of my fortress. 

Gaining the river, I followed up to where the 
forest gave place to the field of dry grass and 
stubble. Here, under a barren nut-tree, I began 
a diligent search for nuts, and waited. 

It was not for long. There was one sharp re- 
port, then another up the edge of the woods, the 
quick bark of a dog, a whir-ir-ir of swift wings, 
and he fell just at my feet, a poor, wee martyr, 
dying in agony. 

Following a sure scent came the setter — a fine 
specimen, bronze-red, long-haired, sharp-nosed, 
eager. He had well-nigh absconded with the quiv- 
ering victim ere I could snatch it. Mingled fury 
and pity possessed me as I contemplated the little 
fellow, stroking its mottled breast and crested 
head. Then, dropping the bird, I pounced upon 
the accomplice in crime, who stood irresolutely 
by, uncertain, as are often others of his sex, 
whether to flee or stand his ground in face of fern- 


54 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


inine wrath. Shaking him vigorously by the col- 
lar, I told him many things, to which he listened 
as a well-bred gentleman should. Then, longing 
to get my hand upon a corresponding article on his 
master’s person, I turned, with intent to follow 
the escaping dog, and, perhaps, to execute this de- 
sire. But something stopped me: lying close to 
shore near me, and anchored by a steel chain to 
the root of a cottonwood, was a tiny skiff. Made 
of canvas, and scarcely longer than a man, it sat, 
swaying in the breeze that tumbled down from 
the hilltops, riding the sleeping surface of the 
water as lightly as a spray of thistledown rides the 
air. 

As often as I had rowed my own light skiff of 
steel up and down the river track during these 
few weeks, I had never before seen this fragile 
water sprite. Just so, on a day long gone, might 
another bark of skin or birch have paused a mo- 
ment here on its swift-winged flight adown the 
broad current while on a mat in its bottom, her 
hands toying with the water, her black hair kiss- 
ing its bosom, an Indian maiden might have 
rested, waiting the step of her lover. Following a 
foolish impulse (as I often do), I unloosed the 
anchor, sprang within the skiff, and, crossing with 
easy strokes to the opposite bank, made upstream 
a short distance to where the low-spreading 
boughs of a spruce-tree formed a protecting screen. 


TRESPASSERS 


55 


Under this I drifted, drove the oar into the yield- 
ing clay bottom for anchor, and waited. 

It was yet early morning. The warm rays 
of the October sun sifted through the roof 
of green above, in kaleidoscopic chasing of 
light and shadow. Two grosbeaks, returning 
from a foraging tour to find their house occupied, 
sped away as two flashes of fire. A kingfisher 
skimmed down from a high perch, and seizing an 
overbold minnow close to my retreat, made off, 
light as a spirit’s wing, upstream. A glamour was 
in my eyes; sylvan music struck my ear; a voice 
called to me down the dim corridor of the past — 
the voice of a barefoot boy. The bellow of the 
river, as it leaped from the breastworks of the old 
dam, came to me from down the winding track. 
Then, swooping down the deep, uneven current 
of my life, came the memory of those happy hours 
with him, revived by the familiar scene about me. 

Was I that small, brown maiden? I looked at 
my hands, then buried them in the water to see 
which was the blacker. And her curls? Flinging 
my hat at my feet, I removed pin after pin with 
trembling hands, and let fall a mass of waving 
tresses. Then I hummed softly: 

I heard not a sound as I lay 

But the kiss of the shore and the sea; 

Yet voices rang clear, from far and from near, 

That long ago whispered to me. 


56 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


A familiar sound drew me back to the pres- 
ent — the chattering of a squirrel. Looking across 
the river I detected a gray pennant, bobbing en- 
ergetically in the crotch of the barren hickory. I 
had before warned that rascal of the danger of 
rowdyism ; yet there he sat on his pet seat, impu- 
dent and defiant. Already the leaves rustled 
from somewhere across the river : my heart tight- 
ened. Yet I was powerless to aid him, for, with 
unerring sense, he would place any sound I might 
make in his behalf and scuttle round the tree from 
me, and into full view of the sportsman. 

Then a dry twig under the man’s boot snapped 
loudly. Such a splendid blunder ! The squirrel 
scrambled to the ground like a streak, and, eluding 
several impossible shots, reached his hole in safety. 

I could hear how feelingly the hunter spoke of 
the incident. Then, peeping through my green 
lattice, I saw him. 

He was not a warrior in feathers, beads, and 
wampum; he was not the spirit of my childhood’s 
dream; he was not even young and personable. 
He was old; his hair was white; his beard was 
long and white also and his garments unkempt 
and ill-fitting as any scarecrow’s. 

As I watched him, wondering, he turned, and 
with a whistle to his dog, strode with springing 
step to the water’s edge. Now was I in for it! 
He hastily scanned both shores, up and down. 
He went far below, pushing aside heavy willow 


TRESPASSERS 


57 


screens. He glared right across into my retreat, 
but the shadows befriended me. Then he 
whistled — the clear whistle of the quail in au- 
tumn, — repeated the call, and waited. 

Soon a rustle in the bushes back and to the left 
of me drew my attention. Somebody was coming 
down the gulch that bored its way back and up 
into the very heart of the rock wall; coming 
stealthily, too, as a cat creeping — nearer, then 
stopped not twenty yards downstream from my 
hiding place. 

It was a girl with long, black hair that hung 
about her face and from beneath the sunbonnet 
in the back. But her face I could not see, for she 
seemed uneasy, keeping behind the trees on the 
river bank. She said nothing. 

“The boat is gone. Have you seen it?” the 
man called over. 

The girl shook her head. 

“Has any person crossed to our shore?” 

Again that voiceless response. 

“Follow the stream down — it could not have 
drifted upstream — perhaps those hanging boughs 
have lodged it.” 

The girl soon returned and wagged a negative. 
She was evidently dumb. 

“Then we must swim it, old boy,” he said turn- 
ing to the red setter. “ ’Twill serve the fleas a 
turn for their diligence.” 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


58 


He took off his coat and belt of cartridges, then 
laid his hand to the button at his throat. 

The joke was going too far. Standing up in 
my uncertain cradle so hastily that I came near to 
losing my balance, I pushed aside the branches and 
called over merrily, though my teeth smote: 

Wilt give to me a silver crown 
To row thee o’er the ferry? 

There was a hoarse cry beside me, and a rush 
of footsteps. The girl had dashed back into the 
black-shadowed gorge. But I paid her no' heed. 
It was upon the old man that I gazed with in- 
creasing astonishment. On hearing my voice, he 
started. Then hastily donning his coat and press- 
ing his hat well over his eyes, he turned to see 
whence the voice came. No sooner had he seen 
me, than an unconscious cry of surprise or pain 
escaped his lips; and, letting the gun fall to the 
ground, he leaned against a tree for suppoirt. 
What surprised me most was this: in that mo- 
ment of time, his figure, before so much at odds 
with the snowy hair and beard in its bouyant step- 
ping, changed instantly into the stooping form of 
the old man. 

The boat, that I had now pushed out into the 
current, began floating aimlessly downstream. 
The oars lay in the bottom; while I sat with one 
hand clutching the side, the other brushing fran- 


TRESPASSERS 


59 


tically at some mist, that, rising suddenly from the 
river, seemed to envelop me. 

He was the first to speak, calling In a cracked 
voice In which I detected a tremor of emotion: 

Dryad, river nymph, or sprite. 

Fair, naughty gaoler, come! Thy prisoner, 
Ancient, grizzled and chattering, waits. 

Ignorant, thy purpose and his doom. 

“Good gracious! Who are you?” I gasped, 
dumfounded at this sudden lapse into the classics. 

“Thy prisoner, nymph, an exile on an alien 
shore.” 

“Rather that sleeper. Rip Van Winkle, you 
seem to me.” 

“I sleep not, but await my doom, sweet one.” 

“Unless you give your name, the night will end 
the day and find us here, old man,” I replied 
warmly. Then, rowing out to midstream, I 
drifted, eyeing him carefully. 

This seemed distasteful to him for he hobbled 
back from the shore — a veritable goblin of the 
hills. Then he seated himself on the root of the 
hickory and quietly waited my next whim. 

I rowed close to shore. 

“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, old 
man. Why have I not seen you during these days 
I have spent here on the river?” 

He started up hastily, and retreated further 
Into the woods. 


6o 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“I am the Sang Digger of Hell-Gate Hollow,” 
he replied, pointing over to the gorge at whose 
entrance huge rocks loomed their shoulders up 
from the water’s edge. “Upon those wooded 
slopes I ply my search for the sacred root; and 
on yon ridge, where now that shadow sits, stands 
a hut of mud and limestone: there I live, and 
there I sing, for an ancient bard am I — the bard 
of the hilltops.” 

Pleased at his quaint manner of speech, I en- 
couraged him: 

“And the girl who ran from me — is she dumb?” 

“You saw her?” he asked eagerly. 

“Not well,” I replied, “but I would like to hear 
more of her, for, some way, I know she suffers.” 

“ ’Tis my child, the child of my sorrow — dumb, 
and a prey to a dread malady,” he answered, look- 
ing away from me. I saw that his hand, which 
was white and shapely, trembled, and womanlike, 
I pitied him in his sorrow, and wished to comfort. 

“If you will take me to her, perhaps I may help 
her. Has she a mother?” 

“We live alone,” he answered simply. 

“Then she needs a woman’s care — you would 
not mind?” 

He made no answer; then, coming close to 
shore, I made busy to land, while he stood silently 
by, offering me no aid. As I scrambled with much 
difficulty up the bank, something slipped past me, 
an oar splashed, and ere I could gain my feet to 


TRESPASSERS 


6l 


look about, the skiff was well on its way across the 
river, darting as a water-fowl, straight to the 
mouth of Hell-Gate Hollow. 

“Now by all ancientry, who is he?” I gasped, 
sitting flat on the ground upon the bodies of two 
partridges, and gazing after the speeding craft 
until it was lost in the heavy evergreen boughs 
that fringed the ravine’s mouth. Then, reminded 
too late of my mission to the river, I rose in dis- 
gust at myself and the whole awkward affair, and 
turning, spied on the ground near me, where the 
man had donned his coat, an old-fashioned locket 
that I knew I had seen before — where and when, 
I could not tell. Inside was the face of a young 
woman in the headdress and costume of some 
thirty years before. The face, with its great eyes 
and broad forehead, was beautiful with that il- 
lusive beauty of mind and spirit. And as I gazed 
upon it with ever-increasing fascination, there 
came to me the impression of a resemblance be- 
tween this and another face most treasured in my 
memory — a face which I wore in a locket about 
my neck. 

Taking the locket from my dress I laid the face 
of my father beside that other one on my palm. 
How alike they were! 

Then, hastening to the water’s edge, I peered 
across to the mouth of the gorge. No one was 
to be seen. 

“You dropped your locket, Sang Digger!” I 


62 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


called. But my voice came back to me, answering. 
So, fastening the lockets together, I placed them 
about my neck and turned homeward, resolved to 
cross to the mountain at some more favorable 
time, and, searching out the hut of the old man, 
restore to him the locket. 

On reaching the Nunnery and hearing the din 
and clatter of broom and dustpan in my room 
above, I escaped to the library, and flinging my hat 
and gloves upon the table, threw myself upon a 
bear rug before the grate. 

This room was my sanctuary. To its dim, still 
refuge I had already learned to flee in times .of 
joy or bitterness. Down from the high walls an 
array of worthy ancestors regarded me. Here 
stood the grand piano with which I loved to while 
hours of sweet companionship. And here about 
the walls were the heavy bookcases, built of wal- 
nut more than a century old, and full of treasures. 
For my people had been book-lovers, reading 
much and the best, and bringing from travels 
abroad rare volumes to rest behind these heavy 
glass doors of their secure abiding places. 

I had not rested an instant here, sprawled out 
on the rug, until I became conscious of another 
presence in the room, and following the telepathic 
influence, I glanced over to the line of bookcases. 

The result was electric. Leaping to my feet, 
I grabbed my sunshade and clapped it close over 
my tousled head. The blood, mounting swiftly 


TRESPASSERS 


63 

up from my toe-tips, thumped its way to my throat 
and over my face, which, fortunately, is not fair. 
I was trapped. 

The subject of my chagrin stood over near the 
window, book In hand, examining me carefully. 
I could see with what ill success he struggled to 
rnaster a smile that played about his lips, and my 
discomfort was not thereby diminished. 

He was small — I might have reached to his 
eyes — and slender, yet I could see through my 
rising fury that he was of a dignity of poise and 
grace of bearing that stamped him at once a man 
of power and promise. 

“Well,” I spluttered at length, as he seemed 
too well satisfied to speak, “well, what do you 
think of me?” 

“I think you might reach to my shoulder.” 

I winced, for It Is not pleasant to be reminded 
of one’s dlmlnutlveness. 

“Did you come through the keyhole?” I re- 
torted. “Such a feat might be possible to you?” 

“Miss Grigsby met me on the veranda, and 
turned me In here to graze amid green pastures” — 
he Indicated the bookshelves. “She seemed to be 
in the throes of house-cleaning, and I should have 
taken my departure, but one has not often the priv- 
ilege to bow to so large an assembly of great ones.” 

“Miss Grigsby” Indeed! I gasped under my 
breath. Then came to me a vision of Cousin 
Peggy Jane, girt about the head with a towel, her 


64 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


skirts folded well up from filthy contact, plying 
her beloved task — and mistaken for me! 

Suddenly an idea seized me which my appear- 
ance might justify. 

“She’ll be back inside an hour; don’t let me 
worry you — ^just slipped in to rest a spell — didn’t 
know you was in here. House-cleanin’? Well, I 
reckon 1 That woman don’t rest or let me or the 
dust rest either I” 

He drew himself up with much show of scandal- 
ized dignity, and feigned to resume his bowing to 
great ones. I could see, however, how much of 
his attention he gave the books, and how much 
to me. 

I now began a crablike movement toward the 
door — to no purpose, for he came over at once 
and stopped me. 

“As my call is professional — ” 

“You ’re a book agent, ain’t you?” 

“ — I desire to include all members of this — ” 

“Oh yes, you’re one of these picture men. Got 
any to beat these?” I designated an array of 
offended forebears. 

“You mistake my errand. Miss,” he replied, re- 
turning to the shelves, whence he took down vol- 
ume after volume, replacing each after scarcely 
more than a glance. 

Watching him from the doorway, I possessed 
myself of the composure that seemed deserting 
him. Then I giggled and simpered. 


TRESPASSERS 


65 

“It ’s ’most like one of them President’s recep- 
tions.” 

“Pardon me, Miss?” 

“If you ’re holding receptions with them books, 
you don’t linger long over the handshakings.” 

“Pray call your mistress, girl I” he thundered, 
whacking a large, brown volume back into- its 
crevice topsy-turvy. 

“You put Froude’s Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle 
back on her head didn’t you?” I asked as a final 
shot, turning to the door. 

By the door stood the card-stand, on which lay 
a small, white card — a newcomer. My eye 
caught the name thereon. 

“Good Gracious I” I gasped, and turning, fled 
precipitately into the arms of Cousin Peggy. 

“For the love of Heaven, Patsy!” She thrust 
me at arm’s length and looked me over. “You 
in there, and like this! — child, child! You mor- 
tify me !” 

“Sh — sh — !” I managed to articulate. He ’s 

still in there he ’ll hear you ! — he, the idol of 

Mooretown’s women and infants! You told me 
he was away, and I’ve called him a — book agent!” 

Conscious of two pairs of eyes upon me I 
mounted the stairs two steps over. Then, gaining 
a secure refuge beyond the first landing, I stopped 
to draw breath — not to listen. 

The minister was the first to recover. 


5 


66 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“She is very sociable — the girl. Who is she?” 
I fancied I detected some eagerness behind his 
carefully guarded words. 

“Sociable!” exclaimed my cousin with her nose 
I knew to be at what angle, “Sociable! Well, I 
guess she is when there’s a man about! That’s 
my cousin and ward, Patsy Grigsby.” 

So intense a silence ensued, the creaking of a 
board beneath my softly ascending footsteps re- 
verberated through the hallway as the blast of a 
toy cannon. 


CHAPTER IV 


MYSTERIES, AND STRANGE MUSIC 

“Dilly,” said I, as she gave my hair its nightly 
brushing, “who was that sitting beside you on the 
woodpile this evening after tea?” 

“La, Miss Patsy! Don’ you know dat sancti- 
monious punkin-faced nigger? Dat was Mr. An- 
thony Hartwell — de Reverend Anthony dey calls 
’im.” 

“Is he a married man?” I ventured. 

“Not at de present. Miss; leastways dey say he 
done kilt two wives in washin’ an’ toilin’ fur de 
does he wars in de wurk o’ de ministry.” 

“Perhaps he detects martyr blood in you, 
Dilly?” 

“Ain ’t you ’shamed. Miss Patsy! I got ter see 
de nigger yit whar I gwine ter be slave ter — 
washin’ dey shuts, an’ warin’ de meat offen meh 
bones pamperin’ dey laziness — dat I is!” 

“Then you should not encourage him, girl.” 

“What you call ‘couragin’. Missis? He jes’ 
drapped round in de intrust ob de flock; sez deys 
a big meetin’ called on fur nex’ cornin’ Sunday 
two weeks runnin’ !” 

“Where, Dilly?” She was never on hand for 
the hair brushings during “big meetin’s.” 


68 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“Down dyar at Mount Zion furninst de fac- 
tory dis side de ribber. Its upward o’ three mile, 
but he low dat aint fur, leanin’ on de sperrit.” 

“Dilly,” said I with a boldness that had not 
been mine had she been facing me, “did you give 
the Reverend Anthony his supper?” 

“I ain’t followin’ de movements o’ dat coon. 
Miss.” 

“Aunt Judy says he ate four yeast rolls, a pound 
of fried bacon, a dish of stewed fruit, and drank 
a boiler of coffee. Now I can keep — ” 

“Den why you ax me? Course you gwine 
b’lieve dat ole shrivel-face liar! Ise gwine kill 
dat ole nigger yit.” 

“You were in the kitchen with him the whole 
time he was there — strange you did not — ” 

“Ise got more importanter wurk ter do den 
gapin’ roun’ at niggers eatin’ bacon an’ apples — 
dat what Aunt Judy busify her time wid I ’Deed, 
Miss Patsy, good ez you is, you shore does ’sprize 
me. You sutiny aint gwine grudge de cup o’ cole 
water ter de Lord’s saervent.” 

“Now, you know I am not stingy, Dilly, but 
indeed,” — she was now blubbering and jerking my 
head to all points of the compass — ^“indeed, I pro- 
pose to reserve some rights of entertainment for 
myself. I can keep no high-class restaurant for 
your admirers.” 

“La — a — Mi — iss — Patsy !” 

“Last night it was Deacon Minor; the night be- 


MYSTERIES^ AND STRANGE MUSIC 69 

fore, Jack and Abram; last Sabbath, the Rever- 
end Johnson — ” 

“La — a. Mi — iss — P — a — t — sy! ain ’t you 
’sha — amed to ’buse me dat wa — ay!” 

“But Dilly, Aunt Judy says — ” 

“Ole leather-face witch I What she know ’bout 
nothin’? Jes’ an’ ole up-country hag — a ’spises 
her I” 

“I, myself, saw that man embrace you out on 
the woodpile to-night.” 

“Now Miss Patsy! does you think Ise sich 
lowdown trash ez ter let a gem’man squeeze me 
on dat pile o’ logs ? I was, to be truthful, settin’ 
kinder close to dat nigger ’cause he allers talks in 
dat reverential tone o’ voice dat he use to retch 
de seekers. Dat woodpile ain’t jes’ steddy like, 
an’ it whoppled over — it ’s de Lord’s truth — an’ 
wid dat I screech out an’ dat man up an’ clamp 
me — La, I was dat skeered!” 

“Was there any use for that affectionate po- 
sition to be sustained for a half-hour?” 

“Can’t I ’splain nothin’ ter yo’ satisfactionment. 
Miss? Dat log gave meh foot an uncomforble 
wrench, it sutiny did; an’ de misery tech me up 
till I mought o’ swoon, or I mought o’ drap off 
in a doze — ain’t I done hyar you say dis mountain- 
aceous air meek one dat sleepyfied?” 

“Go to bed, Dilly!” I exclaimed in despair. I 
had long since learned the elastic properties of 
Dilly’s tongue. 


70 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


She, ever faithful, remained however. She 
toyed with my hair, which was her pride, and 
curled the long ringlets about her finger caress- 
ingly. 

“Why don’ you never git married. Missis?” 
she asked softly after a long silence between us. 
“Women folks, an’ ’speshully de high-steppin’ 
little uns like you kyarnt knock ’bout in dis worl’ 
by deyselves. When de black gals gits married de 
chances is deys settin’ deyselves up fur knocks an’ 
scufflin’. But youse jes’ like dat Firginy creeper 
out on dat wall ; you mought be out doin’ rank an’ 
thrivin’ in de spring an’ summer, but whar you 
gwine hole to when de winds o’ winter tetches yer 
an’ de snow tromples yer? Yes seh! [Dilly talks 
to men oftenest] dis lonesome house an’ de little 
Missis needs a big, strong boss.” 

I thought it wise to say nothing, and she went 
on : 

“Ain’t I done seen dese same rings wropped 
roun’ moren a dozen hearts ! Dar was dat high- 
stepper, Colonel Allen, an’ dat rich ole skunk 
whar tried ter buy yer wid diamonds dat some 
folks sez was paste; he shore did paste his ’fec- 
tions ter de wrong jewel dat time, shore. Den 
dar was Marse Warren — dat man sutiny did set 
a heap o’ store by you. Miss Patsy; peared like 
dey want no cranny ob his heart you hadn’t 
crawled into. I wonders sometimes whar dat man 
gone — you think he shore ’nouf dead or 


MYSTERIES, AND STRANGE MUSIC 7 1 

drownded? Yes seh,” she went on as I was still 
silent, ‘‘dem swells did sutiny pester you, an’ cornin’ 
to de country ain’t gwine shake ’em off — deys dat 
pernacious !” 

She had finished the brushing. Then, turning 
down the coverlid and thumping up an immaculate 
pillow, she brought me cool water and my night- 
dress, and left me. 

Some of my friends, who have never been 
blessed with Dillys, wonder at my long-suffering 
and forbearance with her. They say I am 
“easy-going,” and that I allow her to do and 
talk as she pleases; they say also, that they too 
could keep their Dillys did they choose to suffer 
what I suffer. In truth they, girt about with the 
armor of defiance and rushing hourly to conflict 
with spears of innuendo and fault-finding, are able 
to keep their servants a week, a day perhaps, or 
oftenest, not at all. To these I say, “You will 
never know the secret of maid and mistress, for 
you yourselves, perhaps, were born to serve. You 
cannot govern wisely; you are neither considerate 
nor respectful; you have no care that they love 
you.” 

And this is our secret — Dilly’s and mine. She 
is, I sorrow to confess, far from perfect; she 
scolds, advises, and is willful. But she loves me 
with a love that will wear her fingers to the bone 
for me when the need comes. As for me, why 
should I not prefer her, whose love is no matter 


72 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


of doubt, to those who love or hate me in pro- 
portion to the number of visits I pay them a year, 
or the number of chairs I happen tO' possess over 
and above them! 

That night I sat long before the fire in my room 
with Puss curled in my lap, and Topsy asleep on 
the hearth rug. The wind whistled around chim- 
ney corners, and shutters, insecurely fastened, 
slammed here and there over the old house, yet I 
feared to go to close them. It stalked, a veritable 
ghost, up and down the corridors, and at times I 
started up and looked at the doors, half expecting 
the entrance of some grim visitant. 

That my house is haunted I had heard from 
childhood. But I loved the air of mystery pervad- 
ing it, and that hovering about me, as it were, of 
an innumerable company. The worn door-sills; 
the pencil-marks; the little finger-prints; the bat- 
terings, — these proclaimed them, my ghosts of the 
past. And to-night I sat and pictured them pass- 
ing up and down the stairway to the tick of the 
clock on the landing. Brave men were among 
them, and honorable; lovely women too, with 
curls flowing over white, sloping shoulders. And 
I heard the others also — the tiny footsteps — pat- 
tering up and down, and the merry prattle of chil- 
dren’s voices. The garret teems with their treas- 
ures: garments, costly and comical; fans, caps, 
waterfalls and perukes; daguerreotypes, — of 
whom, there is none to tell ; bundles of old letters, 


MYSTERIES, AND STRANGE MUSIC 


73 


bearing no stamp, and odd-shaped; sheep-skin 
parchments — grants of land, bearing the seal of 
His Majesty George the Second, by the Grace of 
God, of Great Britain, France and Ireland, King, 
Defender of the Faith. 

So I fear them not — these ghosts of mine. I 
revere their memory. I stretch out to them 
empty, yearning arms across fathomless abysses. 
Ere long I, too, shall join them. Then, some- 
times, on nights like these, I shall betake myself 
back to wander up and down these hallways, and 
to sit in old, familiar places. 

But there are creatures of darkness in this house 
that I fear, and loathe. They wake me up on 
dark nights, dragging their shackling bones up 
and down the stairs and through the corridors. 
They make queer, uncanny noises, and often I hear 
swift-flying footsteps. On nights when the moon 
sheds pale lights over the room, they come — those 
stealthy things — and sit upon my feet; sit there 
silently, gazing at me, until I descry sardonic 
grins upon their faces, and shriek in terror. You 
all know them. The unimaginative call them 
“rats.” To some they come as emissaries of the 
Evil One, and as such they come to me. 


The clock on the landing told the hour of mid- 
night. Suddenly a sound struck the stillness and 
brought me, eager and trembling, to the casement. 
A chord of a guitar accompaniment came up from 


74 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


the terrace, and a man’s voice began in a low and 
mellow baritone : 

Wie nahte mir der Schlummer, 

Bevor ich ihn geseh’n 
Ja, Liebe pflegt mit Kummer 
Stets Hand in Hand zu geh’n! 

My heart pounded. ’Twas that recitative so 
dear to me from “Der Freischiitz” and in the 
soulful language that I loved. I stood in the 
shadow of the curtain, breathless. When had 
ever an opera so matchless a setting! The sleep- 
ing Jungle; the moon-flooded terrace and ve- 
randa; the great house wrapped in silence; the 
singer, unknown to me, yet whose voice throbbed 
with a passion that echoed strangely in my heart; 
and I at my window, hidden but trembling with I 
know not what blissful emotion. 

The voice sang on : 

Leise, leise, fromme Weise! 

Schwing dich auf zum Sternen-kreise ! 

Lied, erschalle, feiernd walle 
Mein Gebet zur Himmels-halle! 

I leaned out into the moonlight and spoke, — 
softly, for there was much need for caution : 

“Whoever you may be, I thank you. Sir Trouba- 
dour; I have never heard that recitative sung so 
sweetly.” 


MYSTERIES, AND STRANGE MUSIC 


75 


He came up under the window, and his face 
showed plainly in the weird light. He was young 
and tall; his thin lips were firmly set, and back 
from the high forehead his hair fell away, glossy, 
black, and heavy; his eyes were luminous and 
eager, and held mine with an unaccountable fasci- 
nation. 

Some psychic mist-veil, as the trailing garment 
of a departed memory, lifted. 

“Gogaphy!” I gasped, “Is it indeed you, or do 
I dream?” 

“Forgive me,” he said disregarding my ques- 
tion, “forgive me that I thrust myself thus upon 
you. All my life I have waited for you, listening 
for a sound of you, living over that happy summer 
when you waked in me the slumbering ambitions 
that since have guided me. It is true, then, that 
you, too, have not forgotten?” 

His words fell low upon my ear; his eyes never 
left my face; but I looked off to the moon that 
sat, a round globe, upon a purple mountain-spire. 
I could not speak, but lived over, in tenfold 
ecstasy, those hours of unforgotten bliss. How 
splendidly handsome he was, and with what confi- 
dent ease he stood before me ! Gogaphy, I saw 
clearly, had well fulfilled his early hopes — he was 
much more than “Mayor of Mooretown.” 

“Have you no word for me?” he asked eagerly. 

“I am filled with wonder,” said I. “Tell me. 


76 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


how is it that I have not seen you these weeks, and 
why do I now see you — thus?” 

A window across the hall went up very cau- 
tiously. 1 put my hand to my lips, threw him a 
kiss, and retreated. 

Then a black head popped in through the door 
from the little room back of mine : 

“Its jes’ like I tells you. Missis, — dey’s dat per- 
nacious !” 

But I threw myself upon the bed, while a new, 
glad joy sang in my heart; and over and over I 
repeated the lines of his serenade: 

Before mine eyes beheld him, 

Sleep never was my foe. 

Ah! hand in hand with sorrow 
Love e ’er is wont to go! 

There was no more creaking of boards — no 
fast-flying footsteps. But somewhere out in the 
beeches a bird answered sleepily: 


“Sweet! Sweet!” 


CHAPTER V 


I RECEIVE A CALLER 

Shortly after this, I had a visit from my nearest 
and friendliest neighbor, Mrs. Williams. I call 
her the Mole, for the simple reason that she bur- 
rows and In spite of the fact that she has large 
eyes and makes excellent use of them. 

This morning she burrowed into my sanctum as 
I was taking my breakfast In bed. How she got 
In where only Dilly and Aunt Judy dare enter, 
would baffle the wits of all save the connoisseur of 
moles. In she was, however. 

“Goodmornin’,” she said, taking In at a glance 
every detail of the room In which things were hav- 
ing their own way. 

“Oh!” I exclaimed, pouring a spoonful of hot 
coffee down my sleeve, “I thought you were 
Dilly — so glad to- see you!” I extended a lan- 
guid hand. 

“Sick?” she asked, looking me through to the 
marrow. I told her I was, whereupon she re- 
moved her fascinator and proceeded to sit down 
In the morris chair. 

“What’s the mat — ?” The interrogation was 
rudely Interrupted. Puss, as developments 
showed, was tucked away under my day clothes 


78 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


that should have been hanging on the clothes-tree, 
but were not. Not caring to be sandwiched alive, 
she rose to the occasion, and slapping the Mole’s 
hand petulantly, leaped upon my breakfast platter. 
Upon this, for obvious reasons, I forgot my state 
of health, and sprang from the bed in search of a 
mop. Seizing a towel in the upper drawer of the 
dresser, I shook it out; and there issued from its 
folds that which froze me in my tracks, — not a 
mouse, but scattered instalments of playing cards. 
These were relics I was keeping, although there 
was now no one to wreak a fondness for them but 
the rats, who more than once had held secret, 
nightly carnival with them. Still, for the sake of 
past and unholy memories, I clung to them; and 
had foolishly hoped, by means of this towel, to 
hide them from the all-seeing eyes of Cousin 
Peggy. 

Mrs. Williams stooped as if to bring chaos to 
order; then, seeming to consider this action unsafe 
without investigation, she turned to me, the first 
card in her hand. 

“What are these things?” she inquired anx- 
iously. 

“Playing cards — that men gamble with, you 
know.” 

“Ugh! me know? Well I guess not!” She 
flung the unholy thing from her, which, fluttering 
airily over into the grate, was writhing in the 
flames ere I could reach it. 


I RECEIVE A CALLER 


79 


My visitor looked from the martyr to me signifi- 
cantly. How well I divined her thoughts ! The 
little card had prophesied, in its awful fate, the 
final doom of all who have dealings with its kind. 

“There, my deck is broken!” I cried in grief. 

“Are they — yours?” 

“Certainly they are mine, and I value them 
highly.” 

“And you — play!” 

“When I have others to play with me. Will 
you kindly pick them up? — my back — ” 

“La, I hate to touch them things!” she grunted. 
Yet her desire to oblige overcame her repugnance, 
and she got them together somehow, handling 
them gingerly between thumb and forefinger. 

The mop was unnecessary by this time, the 
white counterpane having performed that obliga- 
tion for the coffee. So, not knowing what else to 
do, I sat down upon my feet on the bed. 

“Folks say youVe been here four weeks and no 
house-warmin’ yet. They thought at first you’d 
be an addition to Mooretown, but you aint even 
paid no calls. What makes you so hold-ofHsh?” 

I implied from this that my doings had been 
well discussed in open meeting, and that I had been 
dubbed a rank failure socially. Also, besides 
being on the warpath daily in strife for popularity, 
rising early, and at even setting the carriage in 
direction for the next day’s conquest — as some 


8o 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


have been known to do — J was expected to be a 
sort of sponge, soaked full of favors to be 
squeezed out at intervals for the benefit of other 
dry neighbor-sponges. 

But to my neighbor I pleaded stress of work. 

“What did you think of old Shakespeare?” 

“Old who? I haven’t the honor of his ac- 
quaintance.” 

“Why, Jim says — ” she hesitated. “Jim says 
he seen you the other day git in that old man’s 
boat, that he had come across the river in, and 
row over the river and hide in the bushes. Jim 
says Shakespeare seen a time hunting his boat, an’ 
when he’d about stripped to swim, you came 
over — La, Miss Grigsby, that must have been a 
shock !” 

Realizing the truth to be as nothing in face of 
such elasticity, I held my peace, pondering. 

“Jim says Shakespeare gave you a gold locket — 
he seen it in your hand. Maybe you’re old 
friends.” 

The Mole cast many anxious glances in the di- 
rection of the silent and dejected heap on the bed. 

“We ’re all afraid of old Shakespeare — he ’s 
dafty. The children can’t be paid to cross to that 
mountain. Once some of the boys slipped up 
Hell Gate to spy on him, an’ not far up they heard 
a hollow voice cornin’ from out the ground some- 
where : 


I RECEIVE A CALLER 


8l 


Fe, fi, fo, fum! 

I smell boy meat, I get my gun! 

Be he ’live, or be he dead. 

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread. 

“I bet they made tracks, don’t you?” Her fat 
body shook at the idea, and I began to see that the 
old man must have some reason for his solitary life 
on the mountain. 

“Why do you calF him ‘Shakespeare?’ ” I 
asked. 

“ ’Cause he makes poetry at every turn; he 
even buys victuals in rhyme. Once he came in 
the store and says : 

‘Of the fruit of the cow and the fruit of the hen, 

Reserve me this sum till I see thee again.’ 

What you think of that?” Again she shook, 
and again a conviction of his motive possessed me. 

“How long has he lived on the mountain?” 

“He came one snowy day last December with 
that poor, dumb girl of his, and took up his abode 
there like he had known the place from childhood. 
No one goes there but the minister. We all think 
that girl has some catchin’ ailment.” She lowered 
her voice to a whisper: “I think it ’s leprosy.” 

I shuddered. Perhaps this was indeed true. 
Did she not shun me? I would ask the minister 
before I went to return the locket. 


6 


82 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“What do you think of the minister?” 

“Is he not away at Synod?” 

“Nancy Moore said she seen him turn in here 
the other morning.” 

“Indeed! Perhaps he called on my cousin — I 
am often out of the house.” 

“Why, Mrs. Wilson, that he boards with, said 
at the Missionary Society yesterday, that she asked 
him what he thought of you, and he said he hadn’t 
seen much of you, but from what he had seen he 
took you to be a rather surprising young woman.” 

“He judges from hearsay, doubtless,” I replied, 
my face burning. 

“He’s an awfully nice preacher; trouble is he’s 
young and good-looking, and the girls worry him 
to death. There’s more young girls in that 
church now than there’s been members for years — 
they’ve fair deserted the others — and as for the 
choir, — lands 1 its boomin’ I with ten girls, and five 
young men who come to watch their sweethearts 
make eyes at the minister. There’s that Skinner 
girl — got no more religion than a cat, dancin’ and 
card playin’ ” — she looked at the culprits — “Sun- 
day, she ups and joins the church. I ’ve got my 
opinion of a session what ’s that graspin’ for mem- 
bers! And Jane Collins — she spells it ‘J-a-y-n-e,’ 
— volunteered for organist, — what the session’s 
been urgin’ her to these three years. I’ll just be 
bound some smooth-tongued, worldly hussy ’ll nab 
him yet.” 


I RECEIVE A CALLER 


83 


“I consider the life of a minister’s wife far from 
inviting,” I replied warmly, having someway taken 
her remarks home with me. 

“Why haven’t you been to church?” 

“I’m not very good, I fear.” 

“Oh, you must go to church! I’ve always gone 
and taken my babies from six weeks up.” 

“And do they — cry?” I asked aghast. 

“Well, then I take them outdoors.” 

“And miss the sermon?” 

“Oh, well, I don’t remember much of that any- 
way. But I see the people, and get the news — 
that keeps one cheerful, and that ’s half of Chris- 
tianity.” 

“You are certainly right,” I assured her. “But 
the news I hear oftener makes me cheerless.” 

“Yes, you must go to church,” she repeated as 
a clincher to her argument. “Why, I haven’t 
missed church for three years, .and me with six 
children’s faces, years, and necks to wash, and 
them to dress.” 

“Who washes their — bodies?” 

“I do, of course, in summer; I ’d have them 
children’s coffins to buy if I stripped them in 
winter.” 

“And they are healthy?” 

“Yas’m, except colds — they ’re always coughin’ 
and snifflin’, but that ’s nothin.’ ” ^ 

“Are you opposed to the operation personally?” 


84 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“La, Miss Grigsby I I haven’t bathed all over 
at once for years; it isn’t decent.” 

(It may be well for me to add here that the 
Mole belongs to one of the Second Families.) 

“You didn’t say what ’s the matter with you.” 

(Would relief ever come!) “I fear it ’s the 
measles.” 

“Mercy! and me with six children!” The rest 
of her information was flung at me from outside 
the door, a cold draft fanning me the while. I 
have heard somewhere that drafts are not benefi- 
cial in measles. 

“Say, Miss Grigsby, people say you oughtn’t to 
live in this old hanted house; it isn’t quite re- 
specta — ” 

“Oh, don’t let them worry; I adore ghosts 
Why my grandfather’s ghost walks here every 
night at midnight, and often about midday. We 
have gotten rather chummy in fact.” 

She looked at the clock, — it was ten minutes to 
twelve. 

“Please don’t hurry!” I exclaimed, springing to 
my feet, and half closing the door in my eagerness. 

“I haven’t a minute to stay — just run over to 
borrow a mess of flour — didn’t have time to walk 
to the village.” 

“You’ll find Aunt Judy below — good-bye!” 

“I ’ll bring it back to-morrow,” she called. 

“Pray do' not trouble yourself,” I answered. 


I RECEIVE A CALLER 8 5 

who would gladly have given her a barrelful had 
that sufficed to keep her at home a week. 

As she passed down the terrace with her heap- 
ing two-gallon bucket, I, — who had so far recov- 
ered as to be able to stand by the window, — ^waved 
the flour a long adieu. That was the third bucket- 
ful in three weeks, with other things in proportion. 
And, as I had never seen any of them, nor their 
equivalents, again, so would I never see this one. 


CHAPTER VI 


UNCLE ISHAM SEES A “hANT” 

No sooner had the Mole taken her departure 
than Aunt Judy entered, and began to busy herself 
about the room. When Aunt Judy does this, she 
has a grievance. 

“What has Dilly done to- you now. Auntie?” I 
asked, diving at once to the usual seat of her 
troubles. For between Aunt Judy and Dilly there 
existed what some term “an incompatibility of 
temperament.” 

“Miss Patsy, does you know de langwidge ob 
de heabenly choirs?” 

“Mercy on us. Auntie ! how should / know — 
I’ve never been there !” 

“I jes’ axed.” Then, after a pause: 

“Ise mighty pestered dis mornin’. Missis, kayse 
Isham’s bin dat onruly, jes like an ole'bline mule. 
He holes to it dat he hearn de angel Gabriel 
singin’ las’ night, an’, do’ de music wuz monstrous 
sweet, de wurds was awdacious — ’bout ez much 
signification ez de brayin’ ob a donkey. Now 
Miss Patsy, dat shore done gimme a shock, kayse 
de Good Book meek considerable miration ’bout 
dey bein’ right smart time gwine ter be put in on 


UNCLE ISHAM SEES A “hANT” 87 

singin’ in glory; en if dey sings in Chinee, how I 
gwine jyne in de chorus? You knows, Miss, 
we’se gwine be singin’ an’ walkin’ dem golden 
streets de whole endurin’ years oh eternity. Dat 
gal, Dilly, ’lowed she aint carin’; jes’ so dey gib 
us a little rag-time — Miss Patsy, speakin’ o’ city 
raisin’ ! dat gal’s a fyar heathen !” 

“Where did he hear Gabriel, Auntie?” I asked, 
smiling, as I thought of my German serenade. 

“Dat aint de worstes. Missis,” said she, dole- 
fully. “Isham not alone hearn Gabriel, he seen 
’im; an’ arter seein’ dat angel, he ’lows he gwine 
ter ’bandon de race fur glory.” 

“He must have had a vision, Auntie, I have 
thought angels to be most beautiful — what did he 
resemble?” 

“I ain’t got de figger ob speech to- ’scribe ’im. 
Miss. You jes ax Isham. I got dis much from 
Isham’s ravelin’, howsomeber : dat angel warnt no 
beauty. I got meh ’spicions ’bout dat Gabriel, 
mehself ; its rooten en grounded in me dat meh ole 
man seed a hant — you know dis house sho’ ’nouf 
hanted. Miss Patsy?” 

“What with— rats?” 

Aunt Judy regarded me with pity. 

“You sho’ am funny, Miss. I means hunts — 
real, libe hants. Aint I done seed ’em flyin’ in 
thru de closed winders mos’ any dark night? 
Aint I done hearn ’em draggin’ chains an’ coffin 
planks up de chimblys? Huh! you white folks 


88 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


got mighty heap oh sense an’ laming’, but you 
suntiny am ’sprisin’ bline an’ deef, ’pears ter me !” 

“I would love dearly to see a hant, Auntie. 
What are they like?” 

“De mostes hants I ebber seen wuz white wid 
white veils ober dey faces, an’ angel sleeves an’ 
trails floatin’ in de air. Dey ’s mostly moanin’ an’ 
seekin’ fur sompen or nurr; an’ Isham say dey is 
dem whar wuz de thievin’ lot ’fore de ole boy 
cotch ’em, needer will dey git dey redemtshun till 
dey ’stores back ter de lawful owners all de chick- 
ens, melons, hambones, an’ sich truck whar dey 
done meek off wid in dey moral life. Dey aint no 
hant neber tech me yit; but Susan Ann Bibbs — 
she whar married dat preacher dey call in he life, 
Judson Johnson — she sez a hant come flyin’ in de 
close’ winder de night arter he done ceasted, seized 
her an’ sing out, anxiouslike: ‘Susan Ann John- 
son, has you seed any stray chickens round dis here 
lately?’ 

“But what pesters me. Miss Patsy, is dis: dey’s 
bin hants foolin’ round here lately, an’ I don’ know 
no one whar done any meanness in dis house. 
Howsomeber, dey’s hants.” 

“It ’s all foolishness!” I exclaimed warmly. 

“Youse possibly right. Miss; but I kyarnt do 
nothin’ wid dat ole man oh mine. He ’lows he 
gwine leave if he kyarnt prove de ’dentification o’ 
dat angel, an’ — an’ — ” here she began to heave 
and moan, and the situation to assume alarming 


89 


UNCLE ISHAM SEES A “hANT” 

proportions. No hant would succeed in driving 
me from my new-found Elysium, but Uncle 
Isham’s departure meant my departure. 

“Do not worry, Auntie; no hant will ever 
get you or Uncle Isham, either.” 

“Don’ know. Miss, don’ know ’bout datl” 
wailed the troubled one. “We aint got no shur- 
rance ob dat I we ’s monstrous triflin’, no ’count 
niggers, — O Lord hab mercy!” 

I patted the faithful shoulders, bearers of many 
burdens that should have been mine. 

“If the Devil gets you, where will there be 
found a black enough place for me? The hants 
never visited you until I came, did they?” 

“La Miss Patsy! Youse a white-souled angel 
now ! If de bad man cotch you, I gwine sing out: 
‘Here, Mr. Debbil, pick up dis black rag whar you 
done tromp ober — ole black mammy gwine ’long 
ter fan meh lil’l Missis!’ — course I aint gwine 
Stan’ by an’ watch meh lady shrivelin’ in de flames 
ob torment.” That the African theology, 
with all its direful prognostications, effects so little 
in saving the necks of innocent pullets, is too won- 
derful for me. 

That afternoon, as Uncle Isham carried the 
evening fire-wood, I called him to me. 

“Uncle,” I began, “I hear you saw an angel 
last night; tell me something about him.” 

The old man was plainly troubled. He fum- 
bled with his brass chain nervously. 


90 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“For Gord, Miss Patsy ! dat critter I seen want 
no angel, an’ meh name’s Isham Chandler 
Grigsby! ’Twas jes’ so: 

“ ’Bout midnight, I hearn a monstrous sweet 
strain o’ music, dat recall ter mine an angel singin’ 
in an unknown tongue. I jes’ step outen de cabin 
ter git a sight o’ de furrigner; when lo an’ be- 
holes! dar sneakin’ round de house like an ole 
hound whar has yanked a hambone, come de oles’ 
onneres’ criter de Lord ebber made. I doubtin’ 
right dar dat de Good Lord meek ’im nohow; 
leastways he done bin powerful knock up sence de 
job wuz complete. Reckon he hearn me puffin’ 
kayse meh wind got ter leakin’ kinder rapid ; kayse 
he turn round, an’ come shufflin’ up to- me, an’ — 
you hyar me. Miss 1 dis nigger meek shore he done 
gone an’ run up on de Ole Boy hisself. He had 
long white hyar, an’ whiskers, an’ humpty shoulder 
jints, an’ beady eyes; he body wuz dat crumpled, 
an’ de suporters lanky ez a starved heifer’s, an’ dat 
bent twill — ’clar ter gracious! dat thing couldn’t 
er pastured de heabenly sheep. 

“He sez ter me, pointin’ a skinny finger, ‘Drap 
down in yo’ tracks, nigger, — drap, I tells yerl’ 
An’ Miss Patsy, I drapped, I shorely did. An’ 
moreober, I took de occashunableness ob dat sea- 
sonable position ter ax furgibness fur meh sins, 
whar I ’members wuz more in number den de hyar 
o’ meh haid; I sez: ‘O Lord, I is a poo’ sinner, 
an’ meh sins is numerous an’ agreeable ! O Lord, 


UNCLE ISHAM SEES A “hANT” 9 1 

sabe me from de debil an’ he angels!’ Wid dat, 
I aint got no furder; kayse dat spook kick me wid 
he ramshakle bender, an’ knock me clean ober on 
meh face, an’ sez : ‘De debbil ’s got you now, you 
ole black, los’ sinner I you’d bettah be prayin’ fur 
yo’ young Missis — she’ll need yo’ ole black 
prayers. 

“Wid dat mention ob meh Missis, de Lord visit 
me wid de shorn strength. I riz up, an’ sez, step- 
pin’ back to a ’spectable distance, sez I: ‘You ole, 
snivelin’ hant, you image an’ subscription ob de 
debbil! you aint got me yit, is yer?’ Den I run 
fur meh gun, an’ when I done fin’ dat gun in de 
dark an’ git back, dat varmint war clean gone^ — 
mon, he war gone! I hankered arter stretchin’ 
meh legs arter dat hant, but I rembers Judy’s con- 
stant an’ remittin’ warnin’ on de subject ob even- 
dropin’, an’ I ’frains from furder ’vestigations. 
Dats de sum o’ meh ’sperience, Miss, an’ dat aint 
no vishun needer.” 

This adventure troubled my mind no little, for 
I knew that a hant was not held in such respect 
by Uncle Isham as by Aunt Judy; then too, why 
had he mentioned me as in need of prayers? — a 
truth, no doubt? 

“It’s all very queer. Uncle, but there must be 
some explanaton. I take him to have been some 
tramp from the village.” 

“I jes’ like ter know what dese unusen circum- 
stanchuns signify. You white folks has got 


92 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


learnin’ an’ you knows how ter trap de Ole Boy; 
but Ise a poo’ nigger whar goes by de signs an’ de 
seasons, an’ I sutiny is pestered, more speshully 
dat he speak discontemptious o’ meh lil’l Missis.” 

“Never mind, Uncle, you go on with your 
chores, and I will study up a plan to trap him.” 

Still he lingered, shuffling his shoes uneasily 
over the soft carpet. 

“Miss Patsy, I ’lowed mebbe a prayer-meeten 
mought peacefy de Lord an’ skeer off de Debbil.” 
Uncle Isham was a famous exhorter of the Bap- 
tist persuasion; and, barring a coon hunt, a pray- 
er-meeting was his most cherished dissipation. 

So I bade him pray as often as he wished, and 
to remember me in his petitions. 

“Thanky, Miss, Gord bless yer, honey! An’ 
Miss Patsy — ” 

“Well?” 

“Ise powerful meddlin’ an’ presumin’ — Judy 
’low dat meh upsettin’ sin — ^but I gwine pray de 
Good Lord dat he fine a man good ’nouf fur a 
prop fur meh lil’l lady — not ez I ’spects ’im ter 
fine one good ’nouf ter kiss yo’ lil’l finger — I aint 
’posin’ all dat on de good Lord — but youse dat 
sweet an’ temptin’, and de Debbil ’s dat busy — 
he turned wearily toward the door. 

“Who could I have better than you and 
Auntie, Uncle?” said I, thinking of their constant 
and worshipful devotion. 

“Youse all we got lef’ an’ we nourishes you ez 


UNCLE ISHAM SEES A “hANT” 93 

de las’ rose ob dem happy ole summer times; but 
youse jes’ like a lil’l white lamb ’mongst a passel 
o’ black sheep; we’se poo’ ole niggers, an’ youse 
a lone sweet lily bud whar’s wastin’ its nonsense 
on de desert air.” 

“All right, you ask the Lord to find the in- 
cense-lover,” I called after him, smiling. 

“Dat I will. Miss, dat I will,” he replied 
earnestly. 

That night I watched until midnight, for the 
nights were brilliant. Yet, though the dogs 
barked furiously at one time, I saw no one, and 
dismissed the matter as the chimeric creation of an 
old negro’s brain. 

Early the next morning Dilly came to me with a 
box of roses — exquisite American Beauties, that 
could not have been bought in Mooretown, neither 
in all this ancient and honorable county. 

“Oh, Dilly!” I exclaimed rapturously, “where 
did they come from?” 

“You knows what I knows. Miss. Dey wuz 
layin’ down on de poach wropped up in dis box — 
bin dar all night, I reckons.” 

Then she added as an afterthought, while she 
stood watching me hugging the beauties, and bury- 
ing my burning face in their cool fragrance : 

“Uncle Isham sez he seen dis same box at de 
post office yestiddy — the mail man brung it from 
de ’spress office in town. But he sez it bin handle 
since den, kayse dat box wuz wrop in yaller paper 


94 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


an’ writ on; dis ’n came jes She retired as 

far as the door, then turned to give full justice to 
the occasion, and words to my confusion : 

“Looks like dey done set in wid dey pesterin’ 
monstrous uncommon soon — cornin’ ter de country 
aint gwine shake ’em off! ’Deed it aint!” 

There was no card attached, but my heart knew, 
and throbbed with that strange, new bliss. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 

That evening after tea I stood out alone on the 
terrace under the stars. The moon, just rising over 
the jagged rim of the Blue Ridge, as yet had 
failed to dim their splendor. Jupiter sat robed 
in kingly apparel, as a monarch should be, high 
up in the blue dome of night; while Venus 
coyly hid herself low down behind a bold peak. I 
descried Orion, king of winter constellations, far 
out into the west, and the North Star gleaming in 
the train of the Ursa Minor. Baring my head 
reverently before the majesty of God’s handiwork, 
I gazed upward with uncomprehending eyes, awed 
in the presence of such sublimity: stars, unnum- 
bered, innumerable, each a mere speck in that vast 
empyrean of pure sky; planets, worlds on worlds, 
immeasurably great, bounding through space. 
What an earthworm was I ! what a puny speck in 
so much vastness! A spark — yet immortal — 
blown off from the furnace of God’s moulding- 
shop, to drift, fall, and rise again by the Breath 
of the Infinite into that perfection for which I 
yearningly strive — the Immortality of God. 

Suddenly a slight sound drew me to earth — the 
snapping of a twig. Looking towards the step in 


.96 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


the stone wall, I saw that which seemed in keeping 
with the weird night — a goblinlike figure crouched 
upon the stoop, watching me. 

It took no second glance to convince me that be- 
fore me was the hant so accurately described by 
Uncle Isham. I knew, too, — and it sent a shiver 
to my heart — that we had met before, and that he 
it was who had first welcomed me home on the 
evening of my arrival at the station. I experi- 
enced a sensation of horror; my knees shook and 
my eyes seemed to play me false. I am blessed 
with steady nerves, but to have been brought thus 
rudely from celestial contemplation to face a pos- 
sible habitue of regions quite the opposite, upset 
me no little. I stood my ground, however. 

‘‘Who are you?” I asked, swallowing hard at a 
persistent lump. 

He sat motionless as the stone wall, and the 
answering silence oppressed me. 

“Have you an errand, sir?” I asked again. 

An uneasy screech-owl shivered out a wailing 
response. 

“Can I serve you, stranger?” 

Still no- answer. 

Etiquette demanded no more. I began back- 
ing toward the veranda. He rose, and with the 
stealthiness of a cat, crept up the terrace after me. 
I neared the step. He was now some ten yards 
from me. He came on — nearer. His face came 
out plainly to view, yellow and shriveled as an 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 


97 


ancient parchment, and in it the eyes glowed as 
two intense coals from under matted brows; they 
seemed to pierce to the very soul of me. A grin, 
uncanny as a madman’s, distorted his features that 
in the ghostly light were already marrow-freez- 
ing. 

Gaining the step, I managed to mount to one 
of the columns, against which I leaned for sup- 
port; but I could get no further, for he was now 
close to me and his eyes held me by a snakelike 
fascination. Then he raised his crooked staff, and 
pointing at me, began : 

“So this is his grandchild, Patsy, is it? Rich, 
beautiful, and dainty she is, this offspring of a 
craven ! Dance on my pretty one, flirt on, and 
marry — marry, and your bridal couch becomes 
your bier! Childless you must die, and the line 
with you, that James Grigsby’s name be a forgot- 
ten story! Look you well to it!” 

Having delivered himself thus, with more I 
dare not pen, he laughed a shrill, diabolical laugh; 
then turning, glided down the terrace and out into 
the Jungle where he was soon lost in its intricate 
mazes. 

I stood for I know not how long, motionless 
through extremity of terror, and stared wildly 
after the man, nightmare or archfiend, whatever 
he might be. It was as though I had been sum- 
moned from a life of freedom, of which I had 


7 


98 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


only begun to taste, to hear the reading of my 
death-warrant- — for what, I knew not; and, over- 
whelmed by the fear of impending evil, I stag- 
gered back against the wall. 

“Miss Patsy? Awe Miss Patsy?” called Dilly 
coming through the hall from the back of the 
house. 

Recovering my poise on hearing her voice, I 
went over quickly to a white pillar, and stood, 
looking with unseeing eyes upward. 

“’Clar ter Gracious, Miss Patsy! you ’s dat 
moon-struck! Honin’ arter dem city dudes, I ’ll 
be bound.” 

I said nothing. 

“Miss Patsy, aint you done heard de dawgs 
rantin’ down in de ravine what runs up into de 
Jungle from de ribber?” 

I had heard nothing. 

“Well, deys some gem’mens down dyar whar’s 
got a coon treed, an’ dey sont dey nigger up hyar 
fur de ax. Uncle Isham ’lowed ’twant no two- 
legged coon gwine meek off wid no ax o’ his’n, 
layin’ de blame on de four-legged namesake. An’ 
wid dat he put out wid dat ax hisself he ole ram- 
shakle benders fyar screechin’ wid de unwontin’ 
base.” Here she laughed immoderately. 

“Call him back at once, Dilly! Have I not 
often said I will have no hunting on this place?” 

“Gracious, Miss ! kyant no message kotch dat 
man! He ’s dat anxious fur a sight o’ dat coon 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 


99 


he’s fyar daft. De tree aint fur, I’ll jest put meh 
foot in de parf arter dat gem’man.” 

“If you must go-, then I’ll go too^ — come!” said 
I, who would willingly at that moment have faced 
night, hunters, wild cats, panthers — anything, 
rather than remain another minute alone on that 
veranda. 

“Land o’ Canaan!” ejaculated Dilly. “My 
little Missis gwine down dyar ’mongst dem 
hyeners !” 

Pulling my hooded cape about me, I had already 
made a good start. Dilly followed, stumbling and 
grumbling, and calling loudly to Topsy, who came 
not, his head at that moment being thoroughly 
wedged into the hole at the foundation of that 
tree upon whose high branches clung the fright- 
ened little raccoon. 

The conjunction of the ravine with the river 
was but a few hundred yards from the Nunnery, 
and we soon came in sight of them. They had 
kindled a fire on the river bank, which cast a flick- 
ering glamour upon the hunters and the scene 
about them. 

There were three gentlemen: Dr. Worthing- 
ton, the village physician ; Mr. Murray, the Pres- 
byterian minister; and the old Sang Digger, at 
whose presence I marveled no little. Jack was 
there, employed for the hunt, and I understood at 
once Dilly’s willingness to go, and that alone. 
And there, too, stood Uncle Isham chopping vig- 


100 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


orously at a sycamore — one that I prized — while 
he cheered lustily to the yelping dogs. 

We stood on the hillslope which way the tree 
would not fall, for it leaned over the river. Then 
I lifted up my voice and shrieked for Uncle 
Isham, shrieked until the surrounding forest 
answered, and from far across the river came back 
the echo. But no one heard me, for such is the 
fascination of a coon hunt for a man that the voice 
of a woman falls unheeded. 

“Uncle Isham!” I yelled, drawing nearer. 

A strange thing now happened, and most true 
to feminine nature; nevertheless I proceeded to 
astonish Dilly, likewise my own unaccountable 
self. 

The panorama stretched before me was one en- 
tirely novel, weird, and witching: the looming 
background of forest and cliff, the latter gleaming 
bare and white in the moonlight; the river, of an 
inky blackness save where the leaping flames made 
tracks of silver, rionling, diminishing out into the 
sable shadows; the fantastic figures of the men 
and dogs glancing in and out among the tree- 
trunks, poking the fire, pointing, gesticulating, — 
appearing to me like eager participants in some 
savage witch dance, or, truer still, the death dance 
of some hapless victim. 

“There he is — look, Dilly, look! He’s gone 
over into the leaning poplar! Uncle Isham — 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 


lOI 


quick!” All this in one breath to the stricken 
Dilly, who could but stammer: 

“Fo’ de Gracious, Miss Patsy! Is you gone — 
clean — crazy?” 

I scrambled down the hillside, my hood back, 
my hair flying, the sleeping spirit of the savage 
and his wild joy in the chase awakening within 
me. I seized Uncle Isham’s arm. 

“Look, Uncle, he ’ll get away! he ’s gone down 
that old tree leaning toward the water ! Sic, 
Dandy — Topsy ! Pshaw !” 

As I spoke, the raccoon, realizing his extremity, 
and grasping his last hope, had crept in the 
shadow (made more sombre by the fire beneath) 
onto the poplar, a single arm of which pressed the 
arm of its neighbor, the sycamore, affectionately. 
Once on this tree, whose roots were deeply im- 
bedded in the river bank, the little creature glided 
silently, watchfully downward; and, as I uttered 
the exclamation “pshaw,” had plunged headlong 
into the water, which closed over him. 

The men stood stupidly about, hatless, coatless, 
speechless, glaring at me. The doctor, being the 
first to recover, reached for his coat, donned it, 
and made Dilly the stateliest of bows. Mr. Mur- 
ray’s expression seemed entirely to justify his 
former verdict as to my being a surprising young 
woman; he put on his hat, then, taking it off, 
offered me a seat on a stump. The Sang Digger 
went quickly to stand in the shadow, whence he 


102 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


watched me. His eyes never left my face; and 
this worried me, for they seemed strangely famil- 
iar though I had seen the man but once. 

Uncle Isham and the dogs alone gave heed to 
the business at hand. 

“Dat critter’s done gone now sartin; jes let a 
coon tech de water an’ dey aint no dawgs gwine 
cotch ’im!” groaned the old man. “Jack — awe 
Jack?” 

“Yes seh,” answered Jack from somewhere 
back in the shadows. 

“Dilly, sen’ dat nigger hyar, gal.” 

Jack came. 

“Aint you done seed dat coon slippin’ down 
dat tree, you idyet!” 

“I seen a mighty sprightly-lookin’ coon slippin’ 
down dat bank dar. Mister Isham, I sutiny did,” 
chuckled Jack. 

“You imperdent, greasy-faced nigger! I ’ll 
teach yer ter call a lady a coon!” came out from 
the shadows along with a sizable pebble that took 
the offending Jack plump on his ear. 

“No offense, lady — no offense,” Jack hastened 
to explain, rubbing the injured member vigorously. 

Silence from out the darkness. 

“You sutiny am surprisin’ in yo’ methods ob 
attack, lady, — meanin’ no offense.” 

Deeper silence. 

“Dat coon shore done slip off slick,” lamented 
Uncle Isham. 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 


103 


“We ’ll get him yet, Uncle,” encouraged the 
minister. 

“Git ’im ! den you hah ter ’merse yo’self, 
Marse Murray! Coons takes ter water jes ez 
natchel ez a woman ter sass; de dawgs done los’ 
de scent, an’ dat coon kin hole he href same ez a 
kinkin’ baby. Dunno whyfur de good Lord meek 
wimmen folks sich oncountable, interferin’, ag- 
gervatin’ critters nohow!” He was plainly dis- 
tressed. 

Seeing the raccoon was gone, and now that the 
excitement had subsided, I contemplated my situa- 
tion, and found no pleasure therein. 

“Come, Uncle Isham,” said I. “I came for you. 
Have you not heard me say repeatedly that I wish 
no hunting on my lands ? I am truly glad that the 
little creature escaped.” 

“Fo’ de Lawd! Who dat I done hearn say, ‘sic 
’em, cotch ’im,’ dis here lately.” 

“Oh! I was urging the little fellow; you saw 
how he heeded me,” I replied laughing. 

“You knows. Missis, — you knows,” he grunted. 

“Come, Dilly,” said I, turning to mount the 
hill. 

Just then Uncle Isham, in order to hasten its 
death, poked the fire vigorously. It flamed up as 
a torch, flooding the scene with light, even across 
the river, where the rocks of Hell Gate gleamed 
in the uncertain glow. I turned to look again: 
and there across the flame-tracked water I caught 


104 the beckoning heights 

the glimpse of a face — the Sang Digger’s daugh- 
ter’s. It showed with a deathly pallor; the eyes 
glittered, and a look of unutterable woe radiated 
from their depths. They were riveted on my face. 

I stood rooted to the spot, gazing with wide- 
eyed horror across the river, and trying, from that 
distance, and in the flickering light, to recall that 
face. Then the Sang Digger, whom I heard even 
at this moment utter a smothered exclamation, 
dashed an armful of damp leaves and earth upon 
the fire, and there came over the scene a black 
'darkness. 

As I now began groping my way up the slope, a - 
swift step overtook me. 

“May I assist you. Miss Grigsby?” 

I drew back, my face burning, for it was the 
minister. 

“Have I met — this is Mr. — ?” 

“This is Mr. Book-Agent,” he replied wickedly, 
divining the cause of my confusion. 

“Miss Grigsby has long ago retired, Mr. Book- 
Agent; your walk will be in vain.” 

“But I am also a picture man, and have at 
present two that may interest even you.” 

“I shall be charmed.” 

“The first has for its setting the library of an 
old Virginia mansion. On two sides are rows of 
books behind glass doors. A piano stands in one 
corner, and scattered about is much good music. 
A man, standing over at the window by the book- 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE I05 

cases, holds in his hand a large, brown volume at 
which he is not looking. On a bearskin rug before 
the blazing grate stands a — ” 

“Your taste in art is far from classic; and it is 
a source of sorrow to us country bumpkins that 
you traveling agents inflict such outlandish speci- 
mens of your trade on us who — ” 

“Permit me to finish ere you pronounce judg- 
ment: “ — on the rug stands a girl in unfestive at- 
tire, her skirts bedraggled, her hair falling in rings 
over her shoulders, her face gloriously — ” 

“Dilly,” I called anxiously, looking back 
through the darkness, “are you coming with Uncle 
Isham?” 

“Ise followin’ in yo’ footsteps. Missis,” she 
called from somewhere back of me. Then there 
came the sound of whispering and suppressed gig- 
gling, and I, understanding, said no more. 

“I hold in my heart the memory of that — ” 
“Your picture does not interest me in the least,” 
I interrupted. “Having heard often from a good 
neighbor of the ‘nice’ sermons she hears from the 
Presbyterian pulpit, I judge that you are interested 
in other topics than pictures. Let us discuss the 
theory of evolution, versus spiritual initiative.” 

“I fail to understand you.” 

“For instance, a man like Dante, whose genius at 
that early day of civilization was such that we can 
now but stand and wonder, — from what did he 
draw his power? From the spirit of the age in 


io6 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


which he lived, or from his wonderful, inherent 
genius?” 

“I care not to discuss such subjects with you,” 
replied the huffled clergyman. 

“And if there be evolution in the spiritual life, 
would we not rise in time tO' a point beyond which 
there would be nothing to acquire — beyond the 
bound of that moral freedom which is the keynote 
of our strivings?” 

“Am I to have no rest from dogma, even in the 
presence of such a woman as you?” 

My head went up. 

“I see you bear the regulation masculine idea of 
our sex.” 

“And what do you conceive that idea to be?” 

“That woman is well enough in her place at 
home ; she may even do for the setting o-f a paint- 
ing, and to banter light and giddy speech with. 
But a woman with dogma or other weighty mat- 
ters is a woman out of her sphere.” 

“Exactly,” he replied. “Perhaps you do not 
know just how weighty and cumbersome these dog- 
mas are. What do you know of Spiritual Initia- 
tive and Natural Evolution?” 

“Less than nothing,” I confessed, fearing lest 
he catechize me. 

“Where did you get the phrases?” 

“From an article in the ‘London Review’.” 

“Do you remember all of it?” 

“Mercy, no. I simply got the idea.” 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE IO7 

“There, you have answered yourself,” he said. 
“Women get, as a rule, no further than the idea in 
these matters, and these ideas they often get sadly 
tangled. Why did you not thoroughly digest that 
article?” 

“I call it hardtack.” 

“And what is hardtack but the compulsory food 
of soldiers on the field of battle ? You might taste 
of it once in order to flaunt the feat to other un- 
initiated palates, but what of it for daily fare?” 

“I shall discuss dogma no more with you, sir. 
But perhaps you will answer me this: why is it 
that the altruistic spirit of our times, which causes 
one to forget himself in agonizing labor of love 
for his fellow-man, does not extend its service 
to the dumb friends about us? Why does man 
preach the largeness of life, its beauty and its full- 
ness of joy, and then, without an inner qualm, pro- 
ceed to blow the brains from some innocent wild- 
wood creature in which the Creator has planted 
so keen a delight in life?” 

“Death to them is utter oblivion; and being 
such, come it soon or late, what matter? They 
have no need of time for repentance, no salvation 
to work out in fear and trembling.” 

“Then this life is their only hope of happiness, 
and why cut it off before their songs are all sung, 
their joys numbered? How much they need a de- 
fender in this unequal strife where brute force 
rides king, be it found in man or beast!” 


io8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“Beasts were made for man,” he argued. 

“So you say was ‘woman made for man’,” I re- 
torted. “Because of this domination of the 
physical did man once sit on the summit of an 
ancient civilization, while woman, his equal, be- 
I cause of her fragility was forced to grovel a slave 
at his feet. She has just now risen to throw off 
that meek submissiveness to her liege, a submissive- 
ness gotten not of the Lord, but by inheritance 
transmitted from her groveling foremothers.” 

“In my humble observation,” replied the minis- 
ter smiling, “woman has always looked to her de- 
fense as effectively as did that little raccoon to- 
night. It took to the water — she takes to her 
wits, achieving by wily strategem in an hour what 
man’s brute strength would never accomplish, 
strove he a century.” 

We had now reached the Nunnery, lying grim 
and solitary in the light of the moon, while a 
deathly stillness brooded over it. Could I enter 
that house intO’ which perhaps that demon had 
now crept by some hellish trick to frighten me? 

I put my hand to the knob, then drew back 
shuddering. A sense of insufferable gloom over- 
whelmed me ; it was so dark, so still within I 

“Let us sit here,” I said quickly, turning to the 
step. 

Mr. Murray must have divined that all was not 
right. He sat down beside me and looked search- 
ingly into my face. 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE IO9 

“Miss Grigsby,” he said at length, “what folly 
possessed you to flit into this wilderness as a dove 
into exile — mateless?” 

“I but fled from a wilderness of people into a 
wilderness of trees; more congenial to the habits 
of a dove, think you not?” 

“Will they protect you from harm?” 

“They will not murder me, nor steal my chat- 
tels. They are, besides, most delightful neighbors. 
They listen solemnly for hours while I talk of ^ 
myself; neither do they talk of themselves, ex- 
pecting me to be interested, and say unkind things 
of me afterwards.” 

“It is folly ! It must not be — it cannot be !” 

“But it is, nevertheless.” 

“You are too young, too — ” 

“Listen — there go the dogs! another innocent 
victim !” 

“And I must join them, — good night.” 

“After all I have said?” 

“After all you have said.” 

“Please don’t! please, for my sake!” I held 
out my hand imploringly. 

“Say that again, and I will swear eternal fidelity 
to mice, snakes, and mosquitoes,” he replied laugh- 
ing, and coming to my side. 

“I make not my demands so comprehensive; 
but come inside; we will have tea, and I have a 
favor to ask of you.” The dogs were forgotten. 


I 10 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“Will you pilot me to the hut of the Sang Dig- 
ger?” I asked over our cups. 

Mr. Murray started. 

“Do you know him?” he asked quickly and 
struggling to conceal his agitation. 

“I have but seen him. It is his daughter I 
would visit, for I fear she needs a woman’s care. 
Did you not see her to-night across the river? 
She looks ill.” 

“She would not see you — I am sure of that.” 

“Why? she has no contagious malady, else you 
would not visit there yourself.” 

He was silent. 

“Can I depend on you for guidance?” I per- 
sisted. 

“Will you take my advice. Miss Grigsby?” 

“I will consider it.” 

“Do not cross to that mountain.” 

“Have you good reasons?” 

“I have.” 

“May I know them?” 

“The villagers fear them — they might think 
you in league.” 

“Then why do you go?” 

“God’s minister goes where he is needed — he 
must, in duty bound.” 

“Then will I go, in duty bound; I care not a fig 
for the villagers.” 

“It is no place for you, believe me; the moun- 
tain is wild, the way difficult.” 


THE SERPENT ENTERS PARADISE 


III 


“Mr. Murray,” I asked, looking him in the 
face, “do you know this old man well?” 

“I have met him often, and, as you seem to 
know, have visited him.” 

“Is he just as — old as one would suppose ?” 

He could ill conceal a start of surprise. 

“I do not like this useless catechizing,” he 
answered, rather testily. “What should I know 
of the man but that he follows his trade quietly, 
and is at no odds with the villagers.” 

“Then I will go to her myself.” 

He looked at me quietly, though his eyes 
pleaded. I even thought that he suffered. Per- 
haps my willfulness grieved him. 

“Please^ — please !” I pleaded. 

“Hush!” he cried; and then I saw that in his 
eyes which made further entreaty impossible, and 
spoke no more of that which lay so’ heavy on my 
heart. 


CHAPTER VIII 


OPOSSUM VARIATIONS 

My Cousin Peggy Jane, now that the labor of 
moving was over, could scarcely endure the soli- 
tude of this “heathenish wilderness,” as she 
dubbed my retreat. And no wonder, for she does 
so love to talk. In the city, she would hang over 
the back fence for hours at a time exchanging con- 
fidences with congenial neighbors. But here the 
back-fence neighbors are pigs and chickens; and 
since I am always out of doors, and Aunt Judy 
and Dilly taciturn to intruders — they consider her 
an intruder, — her life here is not worth living. 

She is of that type, well known to most women, 
from whom, in the matter of rivalry, we have 
nothing to fear. This I find so comfortable that I 
willingly accept withal a tongue of whip-cord 
properties; also an inordinate, insatiable curiosity. 
There can be no combination lock of skeleton 
closet or heart’s treasure-chest so intricate as to 
baffle her persevering efforts at prying. She may 
be thirty-five or fifty — there is none to tell. Her 
face is hatchet-shaped, eagle-beaked; her eyes, 
small, far in-set, and of an uncomfortable keen- 
ness; while her mouth, with its lines and projecting 
teeth, is not what I call kissable. She is tall, but 


OPOSSUM VARIATIONS 


II3 

not “willowy” ; and I, to whom my diminutiveness 
has^ always been a thorn in the flesh, do now ex- 
perience at times a sense of gratitude to the 
Powers that made me as I am. 

Then she is so indefatigably busy with her fin- 
gers that I suffer the remorse of a criminal — in 
her presence — when I sit quietly beside my work, 
by no means afraid of it, my hands behind my 
head, my feet high on the fender, my eyes gazing 
into the fire, while my energetic brain employs 
itself in finishing off the steeple of an elaborate air- 
castle. 

The night after my encounter with the goblin 
was passed in tossing, and stopping my ears to 
those diabolical curses, that, borne on every breath 
of the night wind, seemed to screech at me through 
the watches. When morning came. Cousin Peggy 
entered the room, and looking at me keenly, asked 
if I rested well during the night. This was not 
her wont, and her tone of voice seemed significant. 
But she asked no- more and backed out, to await 
the coming of a cousin or a good neighbor — and 
she had not long to wait. 

Having risen and finished a careful toilet, I 
chanced to look out of the window and saw that 
which precipitated me back into bed with astound- 
ing alacrity — the approach of a cousin, and that 
cousin a chum of Cousin Peggy’s and sharer of her 
confidences. 


8 


1 14 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

Soon Dilly’s step without sounded the knell of 
doom. She had assisted at my toilet, and brought 
me tea only a moment before; and I marveled at 
the nice discernment that caused her to delay her 
entrance, — a thing unusual with Dilly. 

“Awe Miss Patsy,” she called. 

No answer. 

“Miss Patsy!” came again from somewhere 
near the keyhole. 

“What, Dilly?” I groaned from under the 
counterpane. 

“Is you worser?” she asked, poking her head in 
a small crack. 

“My head — my head!” It really did feel far 
from its best. 

“Miss Rachel ’s come ter call. Miss.” 

“For pity’s sake, tell her I’m in bed, will you?” 

“Yass’m,” answered Dilly, stooping to remove 
a boot that protruded from the white cover. 
Then, as I continued to moan in agony : 

“Whar ’s yo’ haid. Miss? I’ll jes rub out some 
o’ dat misery.” 

“Go tell Cousin Peggy Miss Rachel is here.” 

Dilly grunted. “She got Miss Rachel fyar 
wound up dis minute narratin’ de detailment o’ 
dat coon hunt las’ night. I hearn her say you 
meek a degagement wid Marse Murray fur dat 
hunt, an’ guess ’twont be long ’fore you’ll be 
payin’ candescent meetins ter dat old Sang man on 
Hell Gate. Dat lady ’s a juggler. Miss I kayse I 


OPOSSUM VARIATIONS 


II5 

aint seen no- empty bucket ’fore what leaked out so 
rambunctous what aint neber bin poured in it— - 
’deed I aint.” 

That afternoon, as I sat toasting my toes by the 
sitting-room grate, feeling better though unable 
to work. Cousin Peggy toiled in the twilight over 
an elaborate tray cloth of Mount Mellick. Re- 
garding all such eye-extinguishing ^ operations as 
contrivances of His Majesty whose work it is to 
devise us mischief, I expressed some such opinion 
to my cousin. She forthwith suggested that I cul- 
tivate a more intimate acquaintance with his Lord- 
ship, — meaning, with his works, I trust; where- 
upon I mentioned the awful sin of proselyting, and 
Cousin Peggy left the room. 

Suddenly the knocker sounded, and Dilly soon 
appeared bearing a silver tray and grinning 
broadly. On lifting a napkin, I discovered what 
looked to be the corpse of a cat, roasted to a de- 
licious brown, and fenced about by smoking sweet 
potatoes. 

“Good Gracious, Dilly!” I gasped. “What on 
earth?” 

“Taint nothin’ on earth. Missis; jes’ a possum 
restin’ on a bed o’ sweet taters.” 

“Now I jes’ wonders who got de imperdence 
ter sen’ a lady dis mess!” she soliloquized, as she 
watched me detach a small card from the crea- 
ture’s paw. “Back yonder ’t was flowers an’ ’fee- 


1 16 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

tions ; now it ’s gwine be possum an’ taters — ’clar 
ter gracious !’ ’ 

“Who dat say ‘possum’?” Uncle Isham stood 
in the doorway, loaded down with firewood. 

“You sutiny aint countin’ on dis possum gettin’ 
standin’ room longside o’ dat rabbit pie, is you. 
Uncle?” grunted Dilly. “Miss Patsy, de possi- 
bil’ties o’ dat man’s eatin’ ’commodations ’stounds 
me; dey jes’ like dem big ’partment houses!” 

“Now, Uncle, have you really killed another 
rabbit after what I told you?” 

“I aint mention rabbit. Miss.” 

“Den I ’ll mention de dimenshuns o’ dat pie 
what ’s bakin’ in de Missis’ oven, an’ scentin’ up 
dat kitchen twill dat man kyamt tar hisself off ter 
feed de bosses,” Dilly was quick to interject. 

“I aint smelled no rabbit pie. Missis, dat ’s de 
Lord’s trufl I aint knowd dese ’partments too 
schrouged fur possum an’ taters, howsomeber,” 
chuckled the old man. 

“Dis possum aint b’long ter no nigger, nohow; 
it ’s fur de little Missis.” 

“Fo’ de Lawd! who sont Miss Patsy any sich 
kitchen trash?” exclaimed Uncle Isham, shuffling 
out. 

“Who brought it, Dilly?” I ventured. 

“I ’ll jes’ step out an’ ax ’im who he is,” she re- 
plied, leaving the room. A colored man, I now 
learned, had been waiting patiently at the door. 

“Take him to the kitchen, Dilly,” I called. 


OPOSSUM VARIATIONS 


II7 

She paused in the hallway, looking him over. 

“Good Lands ! take dat clodhopper into my 
kitchen? No seh! Look at dem feet!” Then 
she addressed the man at the door : 

“Who sont dat mess hyar, nohow, nigger?” 

“Wheel hyar dat black gal callin’ possum meat 
‘mess’. Whar you from, lady?” 

“’Taint takin’ no- X ray ter tell whar you from, 
shore!” 

“What you signify by ‘X ray’?” 

“Whar you bin livin’, coon? Youse one o’ dese 
hyar green spring vege’bles — a regular ignor- 
mus.” 

“Does you mean ter misuse de word ‘ignor- 
ramer’?” 

“I means what I means, seh!” 

“Hi, youse uppish! city, eh?” 

“Leastways Ise no up-country trash — don’t 
know nothin’ !” 

“Is you ’quainted wid we-all. Miss? Wese de 
top o’ de pot.” 

“I takes notice de grease rises.” 

“Wese de cream o’ Mooretown sassiety.” 

“De onliest black cow what I knows is de Hol- 
stein ; an’ de cream from dat cow is dat thin twill 
kyarnt whitewash a nigger’s lip — mighty poo’ 
cream, mighty!” I could tell from Dilly’s tone 
that her chin was tilted to a considerable angle. 

“Shet yo’ imperdent mouf, gal !” said the cream 
of Mooretown’s Holsteins. 


ii8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“I alnt heam you say who sont dat mess ter 
meh little Missis.” 

“Is you yo’ lady’s keeper?” 

“Ise got a mighty big rabbit pie cookin’ out in 
de kitchen an’ — ” 

“Heish, gal ! dat ole sadger gimme a dollar ter 
fetch dat critter hyar an’ not mention de sender.” 

“De secrets what’s intrusten to dese years o’ 
mine is good ez buried in de grabe o’ death; dey 
petrifies in dyar.” 

“Dey tells me de dead rises.” 

“Dilly,” I called, feeling that this might never 
end, “here, give this tray to your friend.” 

“No friend o’ mine. Miss,” she replied indig- 
nantly, and hastening back to the door, where, 
after much scuffling, giggling, and squealing, 
punctuated by phrases such as “Quit, nigger!” 
“Youse dat fresh!” and their like, the door 
slammed, and she walked demurely back into the 
sitting-room. 

“Did you know him, Dilly?” I asked with some 
show of interest. 

“No, Miss. I don’t sot meh eyeballs on no sech 
trash ez dat coon. Dey want no refinery ’bout dat 
man, — face jes’ ez black an’ shiny ez Risin’-sun 
stove polish — an’ shoes ! — dey was dese hyar num- 
ber no mores. Miss ! An’ dat fool had de awda- 
ciousness ter ring yo’ front do’ bell!” 

“I thought I heard him kiss you, — I heard 
something.” 


OPOSSUM VARIATIONS 


II9 

“You heard me givin’ im some of dis hyar inside 
fis’ o’ mine — whar I gwine dispose o’ dis carcass?” 

“On the dinner table, of course.” 

“You shorely aint gwine eat possum meat, 
Missis!” 

“I surely am — take it away.” 

A little later. Aunt Judy poked her grizzled 
head in at the door : 

“Miss Patsy, dat possum aint fitten to eat.” 

“Why?” 

“Takes a nigger to cook possum.” 

“Perhaps a negro did cook it.” 

“You kyarnt fool me. Miss. I kin tell by de 
way dat possum res’ on he bed o’ taters dat he ole 
nuss aint put ’im ter sleep ; he res’ so onnatchel an’ 
oncomforable like. De white folks kin cook dem 
things dey calls ‘ah-la-francy’, but when it comes 
ter possum, — Good Lawd!” 

When Cousin Peggy and I sat down to dinner 
that night, the opossum reposed comfortably 
enough, to my unseeing eye, on its potato bed be- 
fore me. Cousin Peggy managed to pour the 
coffee, but she refused meat: she was ill. In the 
inevitable course of events that brings to all their 
just deserts, it had now come turn for Cousin 
Peggy’s head to ache; and, pleading this much- 
imposed-upon malady as excuse, she left the table. 

I ate a bit of the greasy thing. It was not good. 
It tasted a good cross between a pig and a porcu- 
pine, or something equally unknown to me. 


120 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


I rang the bell. 

“Dilly, give this thing to Topsy.” 

“Yass’m,” she answered, bearing the unfortu- 
nate creature to the kitchen. 

At nine o’clock Topsy came whining to me for 
his supper. He also must have apartment-house 
accommodations. 

And as for me, here was somewhat else to 
trouble me : although it was doubtless taken on my 
estate last night, why should the old Sang Digger 
of Hell Gate send me an opossum — and on a 
silver tray ? 


i 


CHAPTER IX 


mooretown’s social center 

The next day, Sunday, dawned clear. A halo 
of mist encircled the mountain summits; and up 
over them, piercing the mist veil with his shafts 
of resistless splendor, rode the sun. 

That calm, peculiar to the country Sabbath, 
pervaded the air. Over all nature rested a holy 
hush, a reverent waiting to do homage to Him 
whose day it was. Jed crowed lustily once, not 
yet knowing the scruples of his Presbyterian 
neighbor-cocks; then, not encouraged by any re- 
sponse, he uttered a subdued quaver and joined in 
the common silence. 

There was no shouting of boys about the farm, 
no calling of cows. The dogs lay about in the 
sun, refraining, because of well-enforced prin- 
ciple, to indulge in their wonted bunny chases. A • 
solitary crow cawed from the lower meadow. His 
band wasc doubtless in attendance upon some re- 
ligious service over in the pine forest across the 
river. Their discordant voices could be heard, 
wafted hitherward on the breeze; and, judging 
from the noise they made, it must have been a re- 
vival with many sinners making loud confession; 
for crows are renowned reprobates. A chicken 


122 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


hawk, crafty marauder that he is, sat upon an old 
dead tree near the barnyard. He, as many another 
sinner, was wont thus to impose upon this day of 
rest, the laws that be, and Uncle Isham’s deep- 
seated convictions. 

I went to church that day, Mrs. Williams 
doubtless would say, either because she so in- 
duced me, or because of the minister. But how 
could these people understand that I, a degenerate 
in their eyes, felt so much in these days the need 
of a strength given to those of mine who' had 
worshiped here, and that I had failed to find else- 
where ! And, as I turned my face upward to the 
sacred shrine of my fathers, that stood, a land- 
mark, upon the brow of the hill, my heart swelled 
for the first time with gratitude for the blessing of 
a pious ancestry. 

On this spot, in a ruder building perhaps in the 
earlier days, those sturdy Scotch-Irish dissenters 
from the established Church had worshiped since 
the year 1750. Here had knelt men and women 
whose moral vigor has seldom, if ever, been 
equaled, finding by communion with their God the 
secret of that nerve force that made of them the 
backbone of a mighty nation. From overseas 
single-handed they had come, goaded beyond en- 
durance by the red tyranny of kings and the fet- 
ters of religious servitude. With the Bible their 
guide, they had plunged fearless into an impene- 
trable wilderness, fording rivers, scaling moun- 


mooretown’s social center 123 

tain-slopes, and threading the mazes of primeval 
forest that, or ever night came on, resounded to 
the scream of the panther, or the blood-curdling 
yell of the savage. With the axe, their sole im- 
plement, they essayed to carve from the forest log- 
cabins, rude, perhaps, but by no means despicable 
for warmth and comfort. With their rifles they 
feared not to look their blood-thirsty foes fear- 
lessly in the face; while I, their unworthy descend- 
ant, sit secure and idle under my vine and fig-tree, 
mine because of their dauntless and untiring ef- 
forts. I climb the same hillslope up which you, 
my worthy foremothers, toiled in bonnet and 
homespun; I. in lonely, dissatisfied ease; you, in 
simple contentment and leading your numerous 
progeny; I dead in spiritual inertia; you, with 
eager footsteps and souls yearning for the bless- 
ings vouchsafed the faithful. The same sun shed 
on you his generous radiance. The everlasting 
hills stood then as now they stand, and will, when 
these bones of mine shall have mingled their dust 
with yours, — will ever stand, — sentinels of the 
Ages. 

Poor, tired mothers I Long since have you laid 
your heads to rest here in the soft lap that nour- 
ished you. And you, poor feet that never stopped, 
and hands that never rested I your rest has been 
long and quiet enough in that narrow, peaceful 
bed. Long since have you entered that more excel- 
lent heritage secured to you through those years of 


124 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


conflict; long since has faith been changed to sight, 
your tears to the joys of mornings And, though 
many summers have passed over your bed, and 
many snows enshrouded you, your name is more 
than a memory. There comes down from you to 
me through the years a subtle aroma, as of dead 
rose-leaves preserving their fragrance pressed be- 
tween the multiplying leaves of time’s heavy 
volume. And this morning, if there be any good 
in me, any discontent of a useless life, any striving 
for better, ’t is to you I turn in gratitude for the 
deathless benefaction. 

As Cousin Peggy Jane and I approached the 
church, a sight unfamiliar to me presented itself. 

Groups of men of all ages were scattered about 
the entrance. The older ones, squatting about the 
roots of a large oak, chewed tobacco and dis- 
cussed various crop results and the coming elec- 
tion. The young men and boys were distributed 
about, upon the church steps, around the door- 
yard, or perched themselves in fowl-like precision 
upon the plank fence that surrounded the church. 
These junior members of the sex that never gos- 
sips, discussed the undoubted or doubtful charms 
of the girls, who, climbing the slope, fluttered by 
with unseeing eyes and unhearing ears into the 
church. 

As I, poor victim, drew nigh to run the dreaded 
gauntlet, where a merciless fire of criticism and 
jokes was wont to be hurled against unoflending 



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mooretown’s social center 125 

backs, a silence as of death pervaded the assem- 
bled host. I dared not raise my eyes ; but felt my 
cheeks go burning at the consciousness of many 
critical eyes upon me, for I was a stranger. I con- 
fess here that never in my previous experiences, 
when it had fallen to me to undergo the eye of 
criticism, had I suffered as I now did; into this 
moment of agony could have been squeezed the 
sum total of all past embarrassments. As I 
stumbled awkwardly into the vestibule, my ear 
caught the first blast of the oncoming tempest: 

“Whew !” came from under the oak-tree. 

“Gee Whiz!” was wafted from the fowl roost. 

Then the church door shut out the sound of re- 
covered speech and suppressed chuckling. 

As I passed up the aisle, bonnets and hats of 
every size, shape, and hue turned nimbly on well 
oiled pivots; there were nudges and whisperings. 
But I noted also with joy that sweet smiles greeted 
me from under trim bonnets, and graceful plumes 
nodded friendly welcome. 

I wore a tailored gown of garnet broadcloth, 
with vest of cream, and a turban whose rosettes 
shaded from garnet to that delicate tint of rose 
that blends so charmingly with the former — my 
favorite combination in dress. One remark only 
reached my ear as I passed to my seat. It came 
from a young miss in green, with cerise ribbons for 
decoration, while upon her head wobbled a huge, 
scarlet hat: 


126 


THE BECKONING HEIGH IS 


“Look, would you, — red and pink! Horrors!” 

This remark went further than the whole tem- 
pest without tO' ruffle me. 

The minister was already behind the desk, and 
a vigorous scuffling among hymn-books and semi- 
audible whispers from the direction of the choir, 
announced labor begun in that quarter. The choir 
consisted of: — an organist and soprano- combined, 
who screamed in agony and accompanied her vocal 
and pedal exertions with excruciating distortions 
of countenance; an aged tenor, who, with his 
“American Tune Book,” conducted a private vocal 
exhibition of his own, — his time, rhythm, and 
melody agreeing in no particular with the time, 
rhythm, and melody of the hymn in question ; two 
young men who sang something, I could not tell 
what, — and many girls. 

The doxology over, the minister’s voice was 
raised on the waiting stillness for the invocation, 
a voice, once heard, never to be forgotten ; deep, 
full, magnetic, it swelled through the church, and 
fell upon my ear as the chiming of hidden melody. 
Then, with some unaccountable grip on the hearts 
of his hearers, he led them by simple, unostenta- 
tious discourse to feed in green pastures. 

I do not remember the text — I never do ; but I 
remember well, and always will, many things he 
said. Often have I thought since, that, knowing 
my need, Mr. Murray had preached that sermon 
to me. 


mooretown’s social center 127 

He spoke of the unanchored soul, floundering 
about and seeking, amid the shoals of skepticism 
and the hidden rocks of doubt, a haven for his 
bark. Trusting to no pilot, without knowledge, 
without the beacon light-house of faith, all 
through the night and the tempest-tossing, — the 
morning finds the fragments of his vessel lying 
upon the bleak death-rocks, and the man — ^where 
is he? Thus we grope, that immortal, insatiable 
part of us, that inmost “me” of our beings, which, 
by its yearnings, proclaims our kinship tO' the 
Infinite. How we strive in our own strength to 
touch the intangible ! How we long for glimpses 
into the Unknown Beyond, for some clearer reve- 
lation from that Divine Source whence spring our 
assurances of Immortality! 

But why should we grope, seeking unguided our 
haven? For every haven there is a pilot; for 
every rock of disaster, a clear-shining beacon. 
Why flounder amid quicksands of Doubt, that, or 
ever comes the night, will engulf us? Why 
struggle amid the storm and stress of spiritual un- 
rest? Why, needing a guide, do we turn to our 
own proud spirits, and hide our silly selves from 
the Hand outstretched to guide us? O eyes, 
blinded by infirmity, look! The Hand is there, 
outstretched to you, who grope blindly through 
the mists. 

At the close of the service Mr. Murray came at 
once to me, and, taking my hand in a firm grip, ex- 


128 


THE BEtKONING HEIGHTS 


pressed pleasure at seeing me in church. Then he 
passed on down the aisle, taking the hands of 
other women, married and unmarried, in the same 
firm grip, and expressing just as much pleasure at 
seeing them. He patted the heads of children, 
pinched the cheeks of many infants, or chucked 
them under their wee dabs of chins, thus achiev- 
ing much in the way of popularity. He accepted 
no less than three invitations to “all days” for the 
coming week ; then he passed on out tO' where the 
pillars and sleepers of the church had again pha- 
lanxed themselves, having been propelled from the 
edifice by the “amen” of the benediction, — for the 
world as though it were the cannon’s fuse and they 
the charge of small shot. 

“Isn’t he lovely!” exclaimed the Mole with her 
three smallest clinging tO' her skirts. 

“Just too nice I” agreed Mrs. Harman, widowed 
sister of Dr. Worthington, and his housekeeper 
(she has a blooming daughter of eighteen, the 
recognized age of highest value in the matrimonial 
market of Mooretown). 

“How do you like him?” a mother asked me. 

“I didn’t know you ’d met him,” said another, 
her tones bristling with interrogation. 

“Why, I thought he was at your house Friday 
night!” Mrs. Williams exploded into my dum- 
founded ear. 

“He was at my house Friday night,” said Mrs. 
Harman exultantly. Friday night? — that was 


mooretown’s social center 129 

the night of the coon hunt when the eleven o’clock 
chime of the clock had roused him from the care- 
beguiling depths of my library arm-chair. He 
must have called by for the doctor. But how did 
Mrs. Williams find this out? 

I now observed that I was the only single wo- 
man in the church, barring a few aged spinsters 
and widows. The rest had followed hard upon 
the steps of the minister; and I, too, had been out- 
side could I have got there. As it was, I wedged 
my difficult way along between two sizable ma- 
trons, whose infants in arms seemed to me to dis- 
play unnecessary interest in the rosettes of my tur- 
ban. However, through my deliberate egress I 
learned this important bit of news: these two in- 
fants were to be baptized at preparatory service 
next Saturday afternoon by the minister, and 
would I not like to come and witness the perform- 
ance? 

Mr. Murray hastened to join me as I turned 
down the hill. 

“How your people do love you!” said I, smil- 
ing into his face. 

“Do I detect sarcasm in that?” he replied, 
smiling also. 

“I have heard nothing but ‘Mr. Murray’ since 
my arrival. Did you know that Mrs. Williams 
set a hen in a box behind her kitchen stove last 
week in order that she might be the first to offer 
you spring chicken?” 

9 


130 *' THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

“Have you set a hen for me?” he asked, look- 
ing into my eyes. 

“I have no hens to set, thanks to certain of 
your cloth,” said I, thinking of a night when my 
most cherished pullets departed their cozy domi- 
cile with loud lamentations. ’T was the night of 
the visit of the Reverend Anthony Hartwell. 

“Mr. Murray?” called a shrill, feminine voice. 

He did not hear, or, if he heard, paid no heed. 

“Somebody calls you, Mr. Murray,” said I. 

He turned, but just in time to see Jayne Col- 
lins of the large mouth and larger voice switch her 
trailing skirts back into the church. 

“Your cake ’s dough, she ’s caught him you 
know,” was wafted upon the breeze from the 
perching pole, and, as martial music, accelerated 
the retreat. The minister flushed. 

“Go see what she wants, and — console her.” 

“Will you wait here? I am going your way.” 

“Would the judges on the bench approve?” I 
spoke low, glancing toward the perchers. 

“I care not whether they approve or not,” he 
replied rather warmly. 

“Good-bye!” I said, turning to leave him, and 
determined that a man so badly “spoiled” as he 
should suffer no' further infection from me. When 
he had finished his business with the organist, I 
was well on my way home and saw him no more 
that morning. 

I heard afterwards that on the following Sab- 


mooretown’s social center 


I3I 

bath, the minister requested the men, especially 
the heads of families, to enter the church with 
their wives and daughters ; giving as his plea the 
opinion that those few moments preceding the 
service should be passed in silent meditation and 
careful preparation rather than in idle gossip 
outside. 

I reached home ahead of Cousin Peggy. A 
few moments later she came panting up the ter- 
race. 

“Well, he shook you, did he?” she said exult- 
antly. 

‘ ‘Who, — Dr. W orthington ?” 

“No. Mr. Murray.” 

“Certainly, he shook my hand.” 

“I saw him. He left you to talk to Jayne Col- 
lins.” 

“Did you catch up with Dr. Worthington?” 
asked I, to whom came a vision of an agile doctor 
escaping down the church hill ahead of a certain 
enterprising lady. 

Cousin Peggy’s thin nostrils dilated. 

“I looked for you as I left the church,” said I 
after a silence. 

“Looked! Yes, you looked like an idiot hang- 
ing on to that minister! Mrs. Martin said she 
couldn’t get a chance to speak to him a minute 
about the Thanksgiving box. She said I ought to 
warn you about entrapping a susceptible young 
preacher.” 


132 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

“The Cuckoo is considerate; but, wouldn’t I 
make an ideal minister’s wife?” 

“Really, Patsy, you should be more modest. 
Your familiarity with men may pass in the city, 
which, God knows, is an abandoned place. But 
the people here are very careful and very obser- 
vant, an — ” 

“They are very observant indeed,” I hastened 
to assure her. “Everyone here knows everyone 
else’s business before the day closes ; and their in- 
terest in me at present far exceeds their interest 
in their future state.” 

“They must be blind indeed not to notice your 
undue interest in Mr. Murray,” she snorted. 

“By the by, that reminds me of something,” 
said I. “When I asked Mrs. Martin in the 
church where you were, she said she supposed 
you had the doctor cornered in the vestibule as 
usual, getting posters for your round of Good Sa- 
maritan visits this week.” 

“Who said — that?” gasped Cousin Peggy. 

“Your friend, Mrs. Martin, — the Cuckoo.” 

“The chattering magpie — the hussy! — the — ” 

The dinner bell rang. This grieved me; for, 
had these appropriate epithets continued to flow 
uninterruptedly, they might, in time, have done 
full justice to the subject in hand. 


CHAPTER X 


A PRAYER-MEETING 

Uncle Isham lost no time. The prayer-meeting 
was set for early lamplight that evening; and 
Cousin Peggy Jane and I were to encourage with 
our presence this attempted propitiation for some 
unknown but prodigious crime. 

Long before dark, a goodly number of the 
faithful, and unfaithful as well, had assembled. 
Some came in a lively hope of spiritual strength- 
ening ; others, — it is to be feared the greater num- 
ber, — came possessed of a still livelier hope of 
that which should strengthen the body temporal. 
But I have no' supper on Sundays. 

It was tO' be held in Uncle Isham’s cabin. This 
cabin, a renovated relic of those palmier days of 
his race, was of logs, well chinked and daubed, 
and spdtless within and without. The white- 
washed walls inside were well-nigh covered with 
bright pictures,-^cover designs of “The Ram’s 
Horn,” “The Christian Herald,” and other papers 
of a moral status not to be disputed. These pic- 
tures ranged in soldierlike precision around the 
walls, tier on tier. (Aunt Judy has been heard 
recently to deplore my extreme lack of order in 
the arrangement of my paintings.) Slit-hot- 


134 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


tomed chairs, Uncle Isham’s own make, were 
placed on two opposite sides of the room, with 
planks stretched between for fuller seating ca- 
pacity. These planks swayed ominously now and 
then as a sister of formidable avoirdupois en- 
tered and deposited herself. 

Our entrance was the signal for the opening of 
service. Uncle Isham, much respected as an ora- 
tor of the emotional order, rose from his seat at a 
pine table in one corner of the room. 

“Breddern an’ sisters,” he began in sepulchral 
tones; “onworthy chillun ob Gord-fearin’ parents, 
hyar me! 

“Las’ night de Lord visited me in vishuns on 
meh bed. ‘Isham,’ sez he, ‘Ise borne wid you 
no ’count black chillun a mighty long time, ebber 
since Ham transacted dat meanness. Ise a long- 
sufferin’ marster; but dey’s a limit, Isham; jes’ one 
Step furder on an’ fuminst dat limit is fire an’ 
brimstone, hants an’ debbils; an’ right dyar’s de 
place fur thieven’ niggers. Meh min’ ’s sot, 
Isham, an’ I pints you meh Jonah. Go ter Nine- 
vah dat gret city, an’ cry again her! De stench 
ob dat city am in meh nostrils. Soun’ de note ob 
warnin’ ! An’ if you plays de fool like dat Jonah 
did dey aint gwine come no fish ter swollow yer, 
an’ vomit you outen hell fire.” (Suppressed ut- 
terances of “Lord, hab mercy!” “Ise a los’ sin- 
ner!” “Swollow me, whale!” with agonizing 
groans.) 


A PRAYER-MEETING 


135 


“Now sinners, arter de rendition ob de hymn, 
‘Who done buil’ de Ark?’ Brudder Johnson will 
lead us to de throne ob mercy.” 

The hymn, raised by a fat sister in a high 
quaver, soon took on firmer proportions. The 
rafters trembled at the fierce onslaught. It was 
sung responsively, the women taking the interro- 
gation : 

Who buil’ de Ark? (women) 

Noah! Noah! (men) 

Who buil’ de Ark? 

Brudder Noah buil’ de Ark. 

Who squinched de lions? 

Daniel ! Daniel ! 

Who squinched de lions? 

Brudder Daniel squinched de lions. 

Who walk de sea? 

Peter! Peter! 

Who walk de sea? 

Brudder Peter walk de sea. 

Each stanza was repeated, the last line of the 
repetition being sung in chorus with appalling vol- 
ume. There were many more stanzas ; in fact the 
singing of that hymn must have consumed no less 
than ten minutes’ time. 

Cousin Peggy, with her Bible and “Laudes 
Domini” hymnal, now looked hopefully about for 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


136 

a way of escape. Such was not to be found. Sand- 
wiched between two elephantine sisters, it was with 
difficulty that we protruded so much as our noses ; 
while the rhythm sustained by our unwilling 
bodies to their swaying exaltation, was little short 
of rhapsodic. I learned at this time that Cousin 
Peggy has an infirmity, though a hidden one. The 
knowledge was forced upon me by her fervent re- 
marks when the fat one on her side brought down 
a delicate foot to emphasize the rhythm. 

Now rose brother Johnson’s voice, sometimes 
well-nigh drowned by heart-rending groans and 
petitions for mercy: 

“O Lord in Hebben, whose throne am ob jas- 
per, an’ de cuishions de down ob angels’ wings I 
Notwithstandin’ dem clouds ob glory billowin’ 
roun’, an’ myriads ob ran-sed sinners shovin’ fur 
room, nebberdeless, youse got a fur-reachin’ eye. 
Sittin’ dyar in ease an’ majesticness, you calls de 
swift-winged Gabriel an’ sez: ‘Gabriel, whence 
comes thou?’ ‘I comes,’ sez Gabriel, ‘from de 
four corners ob de earth, an’ from walkin’ up an’ 
down in de same.’ ‘What ’s dem black specks I 
see, Gabriel, dem drone bees buzzin’ round de 
Debbil’s ’lasses jug o’ sin down dyar?’ “Dem ’s 
niggers. Lord,’ meek answer Gabriel, ‘lazy, 
thievin’ niggers !’ Den sez thou : ‘dey mus’ be 
sabed ; but hit ’s gwine take some powerful rasslin’ 
wid Satan to deliberate ’em, an’ soak off dat sticky 
slime.’ ” (Cries of “Help, Lord!’’ “Yass, Lord!” 
“Come down, Jesus!”) 


A PRAYER-MEETING 


137 


“Yass, come down, Lord! Retch out dat strong 
arm;^ seize us on de broad road ob ruin; haul us 
back inter de narrer parf. Lord, hit ’s mighty nar- 
rer, hits mighty steep I an’ dat road is dat chock 
full ob ’lurements of Satan- — razzors, watermil- 
lions, chicken roos’ 1 our tongues is prone ter sass ; 
our feet nachelly itches ter dance inter hell fire at 
de soun’ ob de banjo an’ de fiddle!” (“Deed, 
Lord!” “So, Lord!”) “But ’member. Lord, you 
createn us, outen garbage an’ scraps, hit ’s truf, 
nebberdeless you done it; so you’ll hab ter bear 
wid us, excusin’ o’ what you done meek us outen. 
Hab mercy. Lord! Sabe us from hants, from 
witches, an’ from debbils; an’ gib us alley room 
somers up dyar ’twixt dem many mansions. 
Amen !” 

By this time the audience had reached a state 
of exhilaration bordering on frenzy. As the 
“amen” was uttered, a sister, sitting just in front 
of us, rose up suddenly, stuck out her pudgy arms 
regardless of proximity, and catching a neighbor 
roundly under the chin, fell back upon Cousin 
Peggy’s lap. 

There are individuals in this world to whom 
things are always happening. My cousin is one 
of these. Her present situation was to be re- 
garded, even by me who am broad-minded, as un- 
fortunate. To rise and flee having now become 
utterly impossible, she did what remained pos- 
sible — she sat still, and turned on me a look that 


138 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

will not be forgotten; a look so replete with fear 
and horror, with repugnance and abject misery, 
that, detecting a rising tendency to smile, I choked 
it valiantly. 

The sister was, to all appearances, stone dead; 
not so much as a muscle quivered. After she had 
rested for some moments in Cousin Peggy’s em- 
brace, her people were at last persuaded that a 
change of venue need not interfere with the spirit’s 
workings; so they bore her outside, where the 
combined use of water, frost, dogs and darkness 
hauled her back to regions whose influences upon 
her were less fraught with terror to her neighbors. 

From all past experiences I was wholly unpre- 
pared for such enthusiastic developments at a 
prayer-meeting; and hastening up, implored Uncle 
Isham to apply restoratives. But, for my inter- 
est, a rebuke was administered me : 

“Squinch not de sperrit, chile! squinch not de 
sperrit, — hit ’s rasslin’ wid ’em!” 

Cousin Peggy, taking advantage of my absence, 
fled to the door; and there, confused and trem- 
bling, fell into the arms of Dr. Worthington. 

“Warming up, eh?” chuckled the latter, dis- 
engaging himself with some difficulty from her 
terrified clutches. 

“Good Sakes, Doctor; Pve just been sat upon. 
Carry me out, — O carry me out!” 

“And what may be your avoirdupois, fair 
lady?” groaned the doctor, plucking her by the 


A PRAYER-MEETING 


139 


waist. Whereupon she retreated, having boxed 
her companion’s jaws roundly. 

For the first time I saw Mr. Murray, standing 
behind the doctor. He came up tO' me. 

“This is no place for you alone, — come!” He 
took my arm. There was nothing else to do, I 
went with him. 

After handing me over to the care of Dr. 
Worthington, for the world as if I were his pock- 
etbook, he retraced his steps to the table. In- 
stantly the hubbub ceased. Speaking a word to 
the old man, he took from his pocket a small, 
worn Testament, and read from it with a sweet 
pathos that matchless prose poem, the thirteenth 
chapter of First Corinthians, while so quietly the 
people sat, the breathing of the spirit-racked vic- 
tim could be heard from without. Then, after a 
short, earnest prayer, he spoke of Christ; of His 
simple, self-effacing life; of His matchless ex- 
ample; of His love for the poor and the ignorant; 
of His bitter death for all; and of His will that 
the humblest accept Him. 

During the utterance of his tactful words the 
negroes sat drinking in every syllable, their poetic 
souls stirred by the rhythmic fascination of his 
speech. Sometimes a tear would brim over, being 
wiped off hurriedly lest the weakness be detected. 
But I heard not a groan; there was no more 
treading upon toes, no wails for mercy. Then I 
fell to marveling at the mental gulf fixed between 


140 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


this man and his hearers. His intellect could soar 
with ease into atmospheres impossible for them; 
and again it could touch its wings to earth to guide 
them tenderly into cleaner paths of understanding. 
What might they become had they such minds as 
his to lead them? Then I wondered how many 
centuries of heredity and environment would 
evolve a like result in Uncle Isham’s cerebral 
mechanism ; and so busily was I engaged in weigh- 
ing their respective brains, and comparing respec- 
tive cells and tissues, that I forgot to move when 
it was over. 

“Gord bless you, Marse Murray!” exclaimed 
Uncle Isham, taking the white hand of the minis- 
ter. “Youse got de sperrit in yer heart; I kin feci 
’im oozin’ out whiles you norates 1” 

We went quietly toward the house; upon reach- 
ing the veranda Dr. Worthington came to my side. 

“The night is mild, will you walk for a mo- 
ment?” he asked. “That pitcher has great ears, 
has she not?” 

“Great ears and a greater mouth,” I replied 
laughing, and leading the way down the terrace 
toward the Jungle. I knew that he had some- 
thing of importance to say. 

I could feel Cousin Peggy’s jaw drop. The two 
stood, looking after us. 

“Patsy 1” she called : “It ’s the Sabbath I” 

“And a fair and peaceful Sabbath,” called the 
doctor. 


A PRAYER-MEETING 


I4I 


“Where are you going, Patsy?” 

I affected not to hear. 

“I wash my hands of that girl !” I heard her ex- 
claim tO' the minister as he followed her into the 
house. 

“Miss Grigsby,” said my companion when we 
were well out of hearing, “it is of the Sang Dig- 
ger and his daughter I would speak to you. Doubt- 
less you have heard the gossip. Because of the 
girl’s pale face, because, too, of the voluntary se- 
clusion in which she lives, the tale has gone abroad 
that she is a leper, and that her father sacrifices 
his life for her to keep her apart from her kind 
in that hellish hollow. Though I have never yet 
seen her well, as far as I am a judge she has no 
symptoms of that dread malady. I take it that 
she is ill of an incurable disease of the mind. That 
they choose to live in retirement should be a 
matter of no special interest to our good neigh- 
bors. The villagers, however, threaten to boycott 
them, thinking to starve them to flight. The 
grocer, only yesterday, told me that he had re- 
ceived an anonymous note stating that supplies 
sold henceforth to the Sang Digger would be sold 
at his risk. And now I come to my point — to the 
object of my visit to you this evening: 

“They say that the old man wanders abroad by 
night, and that his feet carry him this way into 
your Jungle. They have no assurance that he 
speaks with you, though an idle tale has gone 


142 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


abroad that he sings at night beneath your win- 
dow. They propose to watch to see if you have 
dealings with these people, and if you have, to 
boycott you also.” 

I walked by the physician’s side in silence, but 
the hand on my companion’s arm must have 
trembled, for he placed his own reassuringly 
over it. 

“You wonder, perhaps. Miss Grigsby, that I 
bring this fools’ talk to your ear. But I have 
spent my life in solicitude for others ; and I would 
ill see this harmless old man injured because of 
senseless gossip, — and you, my dear child, you are 
the daughter of my boyhood’s friend — !” His 
voice broke. “Believe me, I am convinced that 
you have no dealings with this man unless it be to 
serve him in some deed o-f mercy. But I beg of 
you, he cautious; you are a stranger here, and the 
goings in and out of a stranger in Mooretown are 
carefully watched. I feel sure they will not carry 
out their threat to boycott you also, and I will do 
what a physician can to dissuade their minds of 
this tomfoolery. I even propose to visit the girl 
in person and prove to them in open statement 
that their fears are groundless.” 

“ ’T is sheer nonsense I” I replied as carelessly 
as I might. “Does not the path to his boat lie 
through this wood?” 

“But they say he comes here by night.” 

“That I know not,” I replied warmly. “That 


A PRAYER-MEETING 


143 

he hies abroad when and where he will is no* busi- 
ness of mine.” 

“I passed him, or some old man, though he 
looked smaller than the Sang Digger, as I ap- 
proached the house to-night. He seemed to be 
coming this way.” 

I stood still for an instant, listening. Then, 
tugging at my companion’s sleeve, said hastily: 

“Come, let us return; the minister will not un- 
derstand.” 

Turning, I almost dragged the astonished prac- 
titioner back over the path. A rabbit started up 
and hopped away; I jumped and clutched his arm. 
A wakeful bird or some night creature stirred in 
the bushes near me; I shuddered, and clung closer. 
Though the doctor must have thought it, was it 
the Sang Digger I feared to meet? Ah, no! I 
seemed to stand cowering in the moonlight again, 
listening to the execrations of that fearsome crea- 
ture, the Goblin. His diabolical laugh rang in 
my ears. I saw again the glitter of those eyeballs 
that had held me helpless as a charmed bird. 

As we neared the stone stoop upon which I had 
first discovered him that night, I hesitated, half 
expecting to see that grim figure rise to confront 
us. The stoop lay in shadow; but looking closely 
again, I distinguished more than the familiar out- 
line of stone. Something was sitting there in the 
darkness, something large and black. It moved. 

I stopped short, my courage that had been wan- 


144 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ing for some minutes now vanishing entirely. 
Dragging the doctor violently backward, I 
shrieked into his ear, terrified beyond knowing 
what I said: 

“There! There! Look!!” 

The Sang Digger, for it was he, stood up ; and 
from out his heavy brows his eyes flashed a quick 
look of inquiry into mine. 

Finding that the visitor was not the Goblin, the 
relief was overwhelming. I drew myself up 
boldly to regain my spirit by resenting this intru- 
sion. 

“May I ask why you, a stranger, come thus to 
sit in dark corners to spy upon me?” 

He gave me no answer ; but his eyes, burning 
into mine, seemed to study me, while they wove 
about me an unaccountable fascination. Here was 
an old man, stooping, gray-bearded, quaint in 
dress and manner; that other was young, well 
dressed, handsome. Yet there came over me a 
sweet confusion of senses that, smiting upon the 
ear of my spirit, reissued in the words of that sere- 
nade : 

Before mine eyes beheld him 
Sleep never was my foe! 

Ah! hand in hand with sorrow 
Love e’er is wont to go. 

“Who are you, sir, and why do you sit here?” 
I asked more gently. 


A PRAYER-MEETING 1 45 

“My name you know, fair one. I came to hear 
the music of your voice.” 

“Eh?” said the doctor. 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils — 

repeated the old man. “I am, as you know a 
dweller of the hills. And, though upon yonder 
heights breathe whispers of Nature’s harmony, 
which harmony her every smallest work in 
voice or motion speaks, ’t is oft too clarion for 
mine ears: the cry of the eagle, ’t is the ringing 
cry of freedom ; the wind in the pinetops, ’t is the 
wail of a soul in Inferno; the roll of the thunder, 
’t is the great Thor on his warpath. My heart at 
times harks for the music of the valleys — the song 
of the Siren.” So saying, he bowed low; and 
turning, left us. 

“A queer fish that!” exclaimed the doctor, after 
a pause in which we both had gazed silently at 
the retreating figure; “a queer fish, and one, I am 
convinced, to tickle the palates of epicures.” 

“You see, he but comes to listen to my piano; 
I often play and sing for hours in the evening.” 

“To me he is a bundle of mystery. I would 
know more of him ere I rest content to have him 
hang about your unprotected home. Zounds, 
child, you need a husband! You should not stay 
10 


146 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


here with no one but those negroes and that gos- 
siping cousin!” 

“Come, ’t is time we found her,” I replied, 
laughing and running up the terrace to the ver- 
anda. 


CHAPTER XI 


I AM IN PERIL 

Nbvember had come, the month that from be- 
ginning to end seems set to strains of requiem 
music. The Morning spread her wings reluctantly 
from out the borders of darkness. Then, after 
the cool, white dawn, although the sun stepped up 
from behind the craggy wall that hemmed the val- 
ley, he was mist-shrouded; and only when high 
up did he smile, sending beams of warm radiance 
to earth. Then how sad were those days when 
Nature united her powers to chant her passing 
glory! All through their length the sun shone 
warmly, but through mist-dimmed eyes; the birds 
that had not already passed from us made feeble 
efforts at song, striving to forget in the sun’s ra- 
diance the chilling frost that was to follow the 
day’s death. But their chirpings spoke forebod- 
ings of an oncoming gloom and disaster. 

One sun-drenched day I sallied forth, well-nigh 
deceived into a hopeful search for flowers. But 
the gray plumes of the once gorgeous goldenrod 
told the tale, as did the shattered pods of the milk- 
weed. I lolled upon a mossbank on a sunny 
southern slope. Then I desecrated a whole ceme- 
tery of dead leaves in search for nuts, and buried 


148 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

myself in the rustling depths, while a pleasing 
thoughtfulness possessed me. Why were these 
days called the Indian’s summer ? Was it because 
his race passed a summer like them, riotous, free, 
glorious, followed all too soon by the onset of des- 
olation ? 

Day by day during this perfect weather I had 
sought the river; and floating upon its bosom, had 
watched for some sign of the Sang Digger’s 
daughter. For, since that night by the river, when 
a flare of light had revealed her face turned to me 
in supplication, I had longed with ever increasing 
eagerness to seek her out in her unnatural abode 
and offer to her the solace that a woman alone can 
give to one of her sex in trouble. Then, too, I 
wished to return the locket and learn, if possible, 
the reason for the strong resemblance between the 
face within and my father’s. As to the fears of 
the minister and Dr. Worthington, I laughed at 
them. 

One morning toward the close of the Indian 
Summer, after a restless night, I set out to find 
her; and, guiding my boat across the shifting 
current, drew cautiously up to the mouth of the 
gorge on the opposite side. After looking care- 
fully about for the vanishing form of the truth- 
loving Jim, I screened the boat behind a low-bend- 
ing sycamore, and sprang to a shelving rock. 

A monster bullfrog, surprised by an unexpected 
visitor, descended into his boudoir in a most un- 


I AM IN PERIL 


149 


cordial haste. A pair of bright eyes peeped up 
from the lush green plants that fringed the water, 
but disappeared quickly beneath the surface; then 
I soon discovered a small gray nose setting keel 
briskly out to midstream — Mrs. Water Rat would 
likewise be “not at home” to callers. A gray tail 
whisked around the bole of an oak-tree and off up 
the gorge to where an Indian-hen screamed her 
discordant notes on the fresh morning air. 

The gorge, piled high with rocks of varying 
size, rose narrower and steeper as it made its way 
back between two bold ridges. With utmost diffi- 
culty I climbed or crawled or jumped my way up 
this Devil’s-hollow, losing much epidermis and 
more patience, and making withal slow and un- 
certain headway. Gaining a point some distance 
up, near to where a perpendicular wall of rock 
seemed to terminate the gorge, I stopped; and 
seeing no way around but to climb the steep ra- 
vine-side, turned to begin the difficult ascent. As 
I turned, however, a stone under my foot slipped ; 
and I sank tO' the ground with a groan, and a 
sprained ankle. 

For perhaps a minute it was impossible to rise ; 
then, as I struggled to my feet, there sounded not 
five steps from me, a low, metallic noise, like the 
striking of a pod of rattlewort. A cold shiver 
went over me. Forgetting my ankle, I leaped 
up and back, with a loud shriek; and just in time, 
for there struck upon the stone that had tripped 


150 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

me, the dark-blotched body of a snake — the 
deadly rattler. I had little thought to see this 
fearsome mountain reptile at so late a day in au- 
tumn; but the warm sun had lured him from his 
winter quarter, and permeating his hateful form 
with heat and life, had waked within him his 
Eden-old spirit of antagonism to man. 

A fury of rage possessed him at the escape of 
his victim. Hissing and writhing, he began to re- 
coil for another and surer spring. His beady eyes 
were fastened on mine; his death-laden tongue 
flashed in and out of his wide-open mouth 
swifter than a weaver’s shuttle; the loathsome 
head rose from the heavy coil, swelling, diminish- 
ing, eager to bury its fangs in my flesh. 

Instead of retracing my steps, I had, in my 
haste and dismay, fled backward into a niche in 
the ravine’s precipitous side. There was no- way 
of escape except to pass over the snake that even 
now was ready to spring. But those glittering, 
green-bead eyes, how they held me ! I stood, my 
hands clasped tightly, held still by a queer fascina- 
tion, watching the dizzy play of the death fang, 
counting the seconds. 

The thick, mud-brown coils — there were three 
of them — grew tort. There was a quiver through 
their spiral length. The horny joints — they were 
eleven — gave forth again their clatter. By a su- 
preme effort I closed my eyes. 

There was a quick stir on the high bank of the 
ravine opposite me, and a man’s voice cried out in 




I 


t 



“ Counting the seconds.” 


FAaNC 130 




I AM IN PERIL 


I5I 

a hollow tone of anguish, a voice that even in my 
extremity I seemed to have heard before, “My 
God — Miss Grigsby!” Then came a sharp re- 
port; and a bullet struck the rock, and buried itself 
into the bank six inches from my feet. 

In the reaction which followed, I sank to the 
ground and gave vent to a fit of hysterical \<^eep- 
ing; while the serpent, coiling and recoiling, 
lapped and twisted its unsightly, headless form in 
and out, over and under the rocks in the ravine- 
bed, dyeing red the water of a rill that fretted its 
way down to the river. When I could lift my 
eyes to the ravine’s edge, I saw no man; but the 
Sang Digger’s daughter stood silently watching 
me. She wore a sunbonnet that screened her face ; 
and her long black hair hung as she always wore 
it, loose, and far down her back. 

It was with difficulty that I broke the silence. 

“Where is he — the man who saved my life? 
I heard his voice — he called my name!” 

She shook her head, pointing off over the moun- 
tain ridge. Then I struggled painfully to my 
feet from the stone that had come so near to being 
an altar of human sacrifice. I was tired and sick; 
my head throbbed; my ankle throbbed. How 
was I to drag myself back down that rough ravine, 
or worse still, tO' climb its sides ! The girl made 
no move, though she seemed to struggle with some 
strong desire to come to my aid. Her arms went 
out once in a quick, involuntary gesture toward 


152 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


me; then she beckoned to a spot a short distance 
above, where a terrace of rock facilitated the as- 
cent from the gorge; and turning, hurried off by 
an intricate mountain path and was soon lost to 
view. 

As for me, having reached the mountain slope, 
and taken a moment in which to be thankful for 
my timely deliverance and to regain my nerve, I 
determined to fulfil if possible my resolve to search 
out her abode ; and set off up the slope in the direc- 
tion she had taken. Up and up, through a glade 
of oaks, chestnuts, and poplars, I followed the 
windings of a path that seemed to have known 
little use. Then over a rocky steep where huckle- 
berry, laurel and rhododendron bushes concealed 
the path from my view, while underfoot I 
trampled ferns of many forms of loveliness, green 
and crimson galax leaves, whole beds of reindeer 
moss, and many-hued mushrooms. 

After a time I came upon a pile of isolated 
rocks, so thickly surrounded by trees and under- 
brush as to be well screened from the casual 
glance. Behind one of these boulders, and in an 
angle made by the conjunction of this rock with 
a second like it in size and shape, I came upon 
the hut of the Sang Digger. Its opening faced 
up-hill. On the sides unprotected by rock the 
walls were of logs, poorly chinked, and daubed 
with hard, red clay. The roof was of saplings, 
cedar boughs, and leaves, and seemed to be rather 


I AM IN PERIL 


153 


insufficient shelter against the storms of winter. 
The floor was the bare ground. In one corner, a 
pile of fir and spruce boughs, overspread with a 
faded quilt, formed the only bed. There were 
two rude stools, a stump smoothly sawed off for 
a table, and a few cooking utensils about. Some 
tattered garments adorned the walls; and in one 
corner lay the Sang Digger’s tools beside a con- 
siderable pile of large and symmetrical roots of 
ginseng. 

I went over to examine this heap, for ginseng 
interests me much. I noticed at once, however, — 
for I had read with interest certain papers issued 
from the Government Botanical Office regarding 
the life habits of the plant — that these roots were 
unlike the small, curiously shaped specimens found 
in the Blue Mountains and sold to our valley 
shopkeepers. They were large, smooth and firm, 
and of superior shape and heaviness. 

The rude hovel had also in its unstable struc- 
ture, and in the scanty appointments of its interior, 
a strong suggestion of disuse. The boughs that 
formed the couch had never been disturbed since 
they were placed in position, and that could not 
have been recently, for they were withered, many 
of the evergreen spines having fallen about the 
bed. The cooking utensils to be seen were rusted 
from dampness and idleness. An iron pot in one 
corner was half filled with stagnant water, and over 
its top was woven a graceful veil of cobweb. There 


154 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


was no evidence of recent fires within, though the 
nights were frosty. There was no worn path 
without, no trampled turf or easy lolling place. 

One fact was evident: if these queer people 
lived on this mountain, then there was another and 
surer hiding place. 

After having completed my investigations, lis- 
tening the while for the sound of footsteps, I sank 
upon one of the stools to rest before the descent 
to the river. Then, weary from unwonted excite- 
ment and over-exertion, I leaned my head forward 
on the stump table, and, ere I knew what was hap- 
pening, fell asleep. 

I shall never know how long I slept; it may 
have been a minute, or it may have been an hour. 
But suddenly I woke, conscious of being watched, 
and looked up to encounter the gleaming eyes of 
the Goblin — would God it had rather been the 
rattler come again to strike me! 

And indeed a serpent he seemed. His body 
writhed in exultation; the beady eyes glittered; 
the shriveled lips parted, then closed as if drinking 
in foretaste the lifeblood of his victim. He came 
a step nearer to me, then laughed that laugh that 
had visited me in many night vigils. I rose to my 
feet and raised a hand as if to ward off a blow, 
but was unable otherwise to move. He stepped 
yet closer; my breath came in gasps. 

“Ha 1 Ha 1” he sneered. “Fine lady, indeed, is 


I AM IN PERIL 


155 


Miss Patsy ! An early climb and a rest in a poet’s 
hovel is not unpleasant — nor the kiss of an exile!” 

“Monster!” I shrieked. “Are you demoniac 
or devil, and is this indeed the gate of hell?” 

“ ‘Where willing victims press the portals 
hard!’” 

^ “I visit the Sang Digger’s daughter; are you 
his friend?” 

“I know them not, nor care, — ’t is you I visit, 
child of a cursed house!” 

“Will you kindly name my transgression, sir?” 
I said with the calmness of despair. 

“Did I not warn you of evil if you stayed, 
wasting in sinful ease the lawful heritage of oth- 
ers?” 

“You are mistaken, sir; I came by my inherit- 
ance lawfully. I am an only child and my parents 
long dead.” 

“And your father — he hissed. 

“ — was the only son of his father, the lamented 
James Grigsby.” 

His eyes leaped as in fire. He came up to me 
and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, peering 
into my face exultantly. 

“Your grandsire — the lamented James Grigsby! 
Was he an only son? Of what outcast was he the 
younger brother? From whom did he obtain an 
unlawful inheritance, and from whom did he en- 
tice the heart of the lovely Patsy ? Who' watched 
him in secret many years waiting the sure moment. 


156 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

and, when that moment came, laid the thief and 
traitor low? I, his elder brother, John — I, the 
despised, the outcast — I slew him! And a solemn 
vow I have made to blot out his seed ere I die 
happy — know you what that is?” he shrieked into 
my face. 

Twice I lifted my voice to cry for help, but the 
call choked in my throat. That I was at the mercy 
of some madman was evident. That his grievance 
was as real as he imagined, could not be, else why 
had I not heard of it? I had heard often that my 
grandfather had died suddenly, but nothing more. 
I felt my breast. Yes, it was there, but the ex- 
tremity must be indeed bitter that I resort to such 
means for my salvation. First I would try the 
calm speech of reason. 

“You have doubtless suffered unjustly, sir,” said 
I moving off from him, and holding still to the 
stock of my pistol, which I intended to use did he 
again approach me. “If I find that I hold what 
is yours I will most gladly restore it, to the last 
penny. But can this be proven?” 

“Are there none to tell you of John Grigsby, 
the elder brother of that James, the favored son?” 
he asked, his voice quivering. 

“I have known nothing of my father’s people. 
He died during my early childhood, and since then 
I have lived with my mother’s people, or alone.” 

“Do not these people of Mooretown tell you of 
me?” 


I AM IN PERIL 157 

“I ask them nothing. But tell me, have you 
descendants — children or grandchildren?” 

He sank upon one of the stools and buried his 
face in his hands. How pitiable he seemed, this 
wreck of human passions! He was as a child in 
his vacillating moods. A moment ago raging as a 
beast to pounce upon its victim, some slender 
thread of memory, vibrated by a word, now tugged 
at its moorings far dawn in a secret chamber of 
his heart — a chamber that, amid all around cold 
and stony, moored that thread in vulnerable flesh. 
He gave me no answer, but sat tracking that mem- 
ory, (so I fancied) back through the shadowy past. 
An inspiration seized me. I opened the Sang 
Digger’s locket and held it before him. 

“Perhaps,” said I, “if you be of a line of my 
house, you may have seen this face — may know 
her. She resembles my father to a striking de- 
gree, yet I do not know her.” 

He raised his head slowly; and taking a pair 
of old iron-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, ad- 
justed them, and took the locket into his hand. 
For what then followed I was not prepared, even 
by the strange actions that had gone before. 

A groan escaped him. He pressed the face 
again and again to his, while a torrent of words 
fell from his lips upon that little ear before him. 
I stood by, my heart full of sorrow for him, 
while from out his blurred past a face with gray 


158 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


eyes looked on him yearningly. The present, with 
its Satanic purpose, was forgotten. 

“My child, my child, my little Patsy!” he 
moaned, fondling the locket, while a flood of tears 
came down upon it. 

“She is your child?” I asked eagerly. 

“My only child that I drove from me, in anger 
that she opposed my will. Yet I loved her, for 
she and her bright-faced baby boy were all I had — 
all I had ever had. All my life since I have 
sought them. How came you by this? I gave it 
to her, myself, long years ago.” 

“It was lost on the river bank one morning by 
the Sang Digger. I found it, and came this morn- 
ing to return it.” 

“He — he?” he stammered. “That old man — 
could he have married her?” he turned to me with 
childish eagerness. 

“We will find him and ask,” I said, to comfort 
him. 

Just then a quick step without was heard ap- 
proaching the hut. Joyfully I hastened to the en- 
trance, but there stopped short. The day’s won- 
ders were not yet over. 

Coming up over the slope from the left was a 
young man, walking with quick, swinging strides. 
He was dressed in a well-fitting business suit of 
dark gray; his linen was spotless, and his bearing 
that of the finished man of the world. As he 
stepped swiftly toward me he removed his hat, 


I AM IN PERIL 


159 


and I noticed that his hair was black and his eyes 
the eyes of the locket. Also I knew that this was 
by no means our first meeting. I stood still, 
awaiting him as I had done so' often in that olden 
time, — a flood of wild, sweet memories surging 
through my brain. Then suddenly, as he held 
out his hands to me and a great light filled his 
eyes with beauty, a conviction seized me. I stag- 
gered back from him shuddering, while the far- 
off murmur of a glad, new song was hushed in my 
heart. 

“You — are — the — Sang — Digger!” I cried 

brokenly. 

But the old man wedged past me in tremulous 
haste; and, hobbling up to the newcomer, looked 
hir' in the face. Then, throwing up his arms, hf’ 
shrieked, “My boy, my boy!” and fell, swooning. 

Feeling that the place was not for me, and 
scarcely knowing what I did, I slipped behind the 
pile of rocks, unnoticed, and fled wildly down the 
mountain as well as my sprained ankle would al- 
low. Below, I could hear the boom of the river. 
On it was my boat, and across it — the Nunnery. 

One thing was certain: I would go no more 
alone on the mountain above Hell-Gate Hollow. 


CHAPTER XII 


I PAY CALLS 

Those who are wont to hide under a cloak of 
duty their own abnormal propensity for gadding 
have been heard to remark that one who is gener- 
ally at home is there because of selfishness. Per- 
haps this is true. Perhaps the shirking of formal 
calls that accomplish no errand of mercy or love, 
that interrupt household duties and disseminate 
gossip, is through selfishness; the performance of 
them the fulfillment of duty. I am not able to 
judge. But this I do know: I do not like duty, 
for with me duty is sure to be something that I 
specially dislike doing. — And “duty,” in the garb 
of calls, now stared me cruelly in the face. 

Among the many things said by the Mole to 
distress me on the morning of her call, her re- 
mark that people thought me “stuck up” dis- 
tressed me most. If anything grieves me, it is for 
people to accuse me of being haughty; for I am 
not. Simply, I have a notion — erroneous, per- 
haps — ^that my own home is the place for me to 
live in — not the homes of my good neighbors. If 
I could induce them to view it in the same light 
we might come to a better understanding. 

But it is the truth that hurts, and the truth lay 


I PAY CALLS 


l6l 


bald before me. I had not returned one call in 
all these weeks. If there was, stored back in mem- 
ory somewhere, a once diligently followed rule 
that calls must be returned within a given time, 
I had elected to disregard it in my new life. That 
rule seemed part of a past that I now made it my 
business to forget. I had likewise forgotten that 
I had neighbors, to whom I owed consideration, 
for they had been kind as only Virginia neighbors 
can be. 

Now the Mole, instead of destroying seed, as is 
the way of other moles had planted a germinant 
seed in my careless heart. No sooner had she de- 
parted than I began to feel uncomfortable; ever 
since, my conscience had kept up an industrious 
ploughing and digging, and in various ways known 
to agriculturists had rendered the soil fertile for 
that little seed. Until at last, feeling guilty of 
some enormous offense, I scarcely knew what, 
against humanity, I ordered the surrey, and in- 
vited Cousin Peggy for an afternoon of agonizing 
labor paying calls about the village. 

Calls ! Is there a woman living who enjoys 
paying duty calls? Can social science explain their 
mysteries? How we dread going, and with what 
sinking of heart our victim hears our unwelcome 
ring at the door! What mutual delight we ex- 
press thus to be able to sit opposite one another 
for some minutes talking insipid nonsense ! Then, 


II 


i 62 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


when the escape has been effected, how thankfully 
we hie us home, our consciences exhilarated almost 
to intoxication because of duty done; while the 
other goes about her waiting duties buoyed up by 
a conviction of her popularity. 

I speak not of those dear to me, the breath of 
whose presence is as the odor of sweet violets, and 
whom I would gladly have ever with me, but of 
those whose friendship is a matter of etiquette 
or compulsion. And it is a thing of joy to me 
that Mrs. Williams is the only one of this sort 
within popping-in distance, so to speak. I can 
endure her, I hope, since she is but one; but to 
have people that I do not love, and who care less 
than nothing for me, thrusting themselves sud- 
denly upon me at all unguarded moments, — how 
on earth am I ever to get anything done in life, 
or endure it to the allotted limit? 

We made many calls that afternoon, but of one 
only will I speak, for reasons to be revealed later. 
It was at the home of the Misses McNutt. They 
need no introduction. Who does not know the 
McNutts or their ancestors? They, themselves, 
are heaped about and borne aloft upon a glorified 
pedestal of petrified ancestors’ bones. In this 
heap, I learned from the “Book of Genealogies,” 
produced for our entertainment, are the bones of 
a general, a colonel, two lieutenants, a governor, 
and many legislators, lawyers, and ministers. 
They seemed to have developed greatness as nat- 


I PAY CALLS 


163 

urally as an infant porker develops a good appe- 
tite. (I know only one male descendant of the 
McNutt line. He is a grocer’s clerk, and yester- 
day sold me some eggs that he guaranteed to be 
fresh, but which, for private reasons, I returned.) 

As they entered the room there came with them 
a faint essence of lavender and rose leaves, such 
as our grandmothers delighted in. Miss Jessica, 
the younger, especially, radiated from all her tiny 
body a subtle influence; I know not what to call 
it, unless it be the fragrance of that innate and all- 
pervading refinement which can no more be hid- 
den than can delicate aromas in crushed vessels. 
We were greeted with a gentle courtesy and 
shown into the parlor, a room as ancient in its ap- 
pointments and as spotlessly neat as its possessors. 
I shivered in my boots, for there was no fire until 
Miss Mariam, the elder sister, murmuring an 
apology for this economy in fuel, lighted the wood 
set on the hearth. 

With the unwieldy family Bible on the center 
table lay the “Book of Genealogies and Reminis- 
cences,” without which the dignity of no F. F. V. 
can be sustained. Seizing this. Cousin Peggy en- 
gaged Miss Mariam in an animated discussion of 
forbears, while I sat by with Miss Jessica. 

She asked kindly after my present life, and if I 
enjoyed the quiet of the country. She spoke of 
my mother, of her beauty, and of how proud I 
should be that I resembled her. She remembered 


164 the beckoning heights 

my father, and how he had worn a rose on his 
coat that she, herself, had plucked from a bush 
which she pointed out to me from the window, a 
bush which I saw had been carefully attended. 
Then, at her request, I went to the old melodeon 
and sang “I ’ll Hang My Harp on a Willow 
Tree” and “Thou Hast Wounded the Spirit 
That Loved Thee,” after which she thanked me 
and sat long in silence. Then I, looking into that 
sweet face, understood that behind that quiet life 
was a tragedy not concerned with those ancestors 
of hers. 

She seemed to turn longingly to the past as it 
concerned my people and hers; and I listened with 
eagerness to- what she little dreamed concerned my 
present life so vitally: 

My great-grandfather, Reuben Grigsby, was a 
man of rare gifts and moral excellence. His fa- 
ther before him had achieved distinction during 
the Revolution, and had counted notable men his 
friends. His home was a rendezvous in this sec- 
tion of the Valley. Here were gathered at times 
many who bore the nation’s weal upon their 
hearts, met for purposes concerning their country’s 
good. Washington, on more than one occasion, 
rested his feet upon the sitting-room fender; and 
later on Jefferson, George Rogers Clark, and 
Meriwether Lewis, had been his welcome guests. 

My great-grandfather was twice married; and 
there was a son by each marriage. The elder 


I PAY CALLS 


165 


son, John, left his home in early manhood, and 
had never been heard of since. He was thought 
to have been killed in the West in some Indian or 
Mexican raid, and being no favorite, was soon 
forgotten. 

The second son, James, my grandfather, lived 
at the Nunnery. And when his only child, my 
father, was almost grown, a strange thing hap- 
pened. It was during the time that preceded the 
Civil War, when trouble was brewing in every 
quarter for the Virginia gentry. Secret meetings 
were being held; and insurrectionists from the 
North threw firebrands of discontent and insub- 
ordination among the simple, ignorant negroes, 
who lived in easy, care-free contentment upon 
their masters’ plantations. My grandfather, then 
in his prime, and possessed of clear judgment and 
shrewdness, was looked to as the vanquisher of 
these difficulties in this quarter. He visited the 
President and laid before him the surrounding 
conditions. He went further, and spoke on the 
platforms of the northern cities, endeavoring to 
place before the minds of an uninformed populace 
the true state of affairs. He strove by an example 
of kindly consideration for his slaves to instill into 
their hearts a sense of security in his protection, 
and a genunine regard for him. And he so far 
succeeded that but few of his seventy-five servants 
deserted him, until compelled by the change 
brought about by the war’s close. 


i66 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Several persons of unknown and doubtful 
identity were arrested at his suggestion, and held 
in security. And in this manner, while endearing 
himself by his devotion to duty to all whose in- 
terests and sympathies were one with his, he at the 
same time made many enemies. It was about the 
time of Virginia’s secession that he disappeared, 
in an unaccountable manner. 

Being indisposed, he had kept at home one Sab- 
bath, while my grandmother and my father re- 
paired tO' the meetinghouse for the morning 
service. On their return he was gone ; and 
to this day no clue to the mystery has been 
found. The negroes reported no one about, 
although the dogs were heard to howl in a most 
doleful manner. Their actions awakened awful 
forebodings in the minds of the superstitious 
blacks, who' dared not enter that portion of the 
house about which the uneasy canines hovered. 
His hat was found, as were all his personal be- 
longings, in their wonted places ; which precluded 
the idea that his disappearance was voluntary. It 
was thought by most that some political enemy, 
some emissary from the North perhaps, had se- 
cretly removed this obstacle to their intrigues. 
The darkies, however, and the more superstitious 
of the whites, to this day shake their heads omi- 
nously, and relate wonderful tales concerning the 
old house and its ghostly inhabitants, tales which 


I PAY CALLS 167 

have gained weird significance with the passing 
years. 

At a certain hour on that memorable Sabbath, 
the sun is said to have hidden its face behind a 
cloud of intense darkness that appeared suddenly 
in the clear sky ; the house became wrapped in im- 
penetrable gloom ; rain of the blackness of ink fell 
on that portion of the house occupied by my un- 
fortunate grandfather, the great library; fumes 
of smoke, smelling of sulphur, issued from the 
ground around the dwelling; household utensils, 
shovels, tongs, dishes, and the heavy cane of the 
victim, are reputed to have walked through fast- 
closed doors with loud clatterings; these and 
others were the omens of evil presage that at- 
tended this sad disappearance. 

My grandmother, the lovely Patsy, always a 
fragile soul, survived the untimely death of her 
husband but a few months. These months were 
fraught with horror to her. She would start up 
from an unsound slumber, screaming that she had 
seen her husband, bound, gagged, emaciated, 
though still living, lying amid the filth of an un- 
known dungeon. At other times she heard his 
cries for help. She would never, after his disap- 
pearance, enter the library. 

At her death her son, locking up the house, went 
to the far South. Here he entered the Confeder- 
ate service, rose to the rank of major, and, some- 
time after the war’s close, was married there to 


i68 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


my mother, a beautiful French girl of wealth and 
high birth. Once he brought her to the Valley, 
and for a short time they lived at the Nunnery. 
But the pervading gloom, and the strange events, 
related in highly colored garb to the young and 
impressionable wife by the servants, so preyed 
upon her mind that she pined visibly. Then my 
father, fearing for her a fate like his mother’s 
removed with her and myself, an infant, to the 
city. Here she soon died, to be followed by my 
father to the grave when I was ten years old. 

Strange to say, all of this except that which con- 
cerned my father was unknown tO' me. It seemed 
to verify, as far as it went, the old man’s story, 
and so rendered my situation even more distress- 
ing. Could I, in order to rid myself of him, bring 
to public gaze this gruesome skeleton that was 
lurking in my family closet? This question I 
could not answer. At least I would be cautious, 
and wait. 

Troubled by these things, yet thankful to Miss 
Jessica, I tore Cousin Peggy from Miss Mariam 
and the “Reminiscences,” and we turned our faces 
homeward. I, at least, had relearned an old les- 
son : the path of duty may be strewn with thorns, 
but under the feet of him that travels it they soften 
into incense-breathing flowers of peace. 

As we drove through the Jungle returning, 
something happened that broke the monotony of 
the journey. There darted across the path in 


I PAY CALLS 


169 


front of us a brown streak of fur with somewhere 
about it a white flag of truce bobbing energetically. 
Close behind came that lean hound of Uncle 
Isham’s, the coon dog — adopted brother to 
Topsy, — Topsy himself, and two small specimens 
of negroid humanity. The procession passed as a 
whirlwind, and my frantic efforts to arrest it were 
offered tO' the winds. Then, climbing out of the 
surrey, I pursued hotly; and came upon them 
busily engaged in twisting the victim out of a hol- 
low log by means of a forked stick. 

For a moment I watched, horrified, seeing 
them, by much pushing and twisting, succeed in 
tearing off great bunches of wool. Then, as I 
hurried to the rescue, they hauled him out, squeal- 
ing in agony, most of his furry coat gone, and too 
weak to escape; and the howling mob, closing in, 
crushed out his life. Clutching the larger boy by 
the shirt band I called loudly to Uncle Isham, who 
had driven the surrey. 

He came ; but instead of dealing out the justice 
I had meant he should, he held his sides and 
guffawed in a most unchristian manner. 

“Give me a switch!” I yelled, swinging on to 
the culprit. 

“Fo’ de Lawd, Miss Patsy! what you gwine 
do ter dat chile? Aint I done sont ’im arter dat 
rabbit, purpose?” 

Such cruelty is monstrous — I ’ll not have it! 


1 70 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

You imp !” I punctuated these remarks in a be- 
coming manner. 

“If yer wants a mess o’ greens, let alone peas 
an’ spinnage, in yo’ gyarden nex’ spring, better let 
dat critter git he funeral preached! Hi! don’ I 
’member dat day seventeen years gone when you 
an’ dat sadger boy whar you got yo’ haid sot on 
yanked de gret-gret-granddaddy o’ dis pesky critter 
outen a log in dis same hollow? Fo’ de Gracious ! 
yo’ Cousin Sarah shore did lay it on heavy!” 

I flushed as I recalled the episode, and how 
angry my cousin had been, not so much at the act 
of cruelty, as that I had been found in the for- 
bidden company of Gogaphy. But I scowled at 
the little wretch. 

“Let me catch you at this again, Jim, and I ’ll 
have you hanged, sure! — hear me?” 

“Yass’m,” answered Jim, grinning. 

“Hi, nigger!” called Uncle Isham as we made 
our way hack to the surrey, “tell Aunt Judy dat 
rabbit ’s mighty young an’ tender, an’ Ise ridin’ 
’long dis road smellin’ rabbit pie twill I kyarnt 
more’n set on dis seat, — git a move on, hyar me?” 



‘ Give me a switch 


I yelled. ’ ’ 


FACING 170 






CHAPTER XIII 


AN ENCOUNTER 

Some days passed, days that were fraught with 
unrest to me. With fierce determination I strove 
to put from me the memory of the man who, once 
my childhood’s hero-, now, hiding from the eyes 
of old friends, perhaps from the keener eye of the 
law, lived in mean disguise upon the mountain, and 
not alone. Yet to me, and, as I believed, to no 
other, he had chosen to reveal himself, far sur- 
passing in his splendid manhood my most extrava- 
gant hopes of him. My heart told me plainly 
why he had done this : it was no matter that the 
villagers regarded him lightly; but perhaps I had 
recognized him, and that / should regard him 
lightly was another thing entirely. 

But for what should he live thus hidden away, 
who was now used to higher things? And the 
girl, his companion? — O, tricky heart of mine 
that would not behave itself, in spite of reason and 
all sense of becomingness! This much I would 
do, however much I suffered: although his con- 
fidence in approaching me argued, my heart said, 
for his innocence, still I would in no way give ear 
to him until he dispelled the dark cloud that hung 
over him. 


172 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


One morning he called to see me; I sent him 
some excuse and kept my room. Once I came 
upon him at the mouth of the ravine by the river. 
He came towards me, his eyes beaming a joyous 
welcome, but I turned without a word and left 
him. Again one night he came, undisguised, and 
sang beneath my window. Peeping through the 
shutter, I saw him, and without a word of thanks 
or welcome, I flung myself upon the bed, sobbing. 
Had it not been for the comments of the villagers, 
and the exultant remarks of friends, I believe I 
would at this time have packed my trunks and fled 
ignominiously from the face of danger. 

Soon after this, returning one day from an 
errand to the village, instead of taking the usual 
path on reaching the Jungle I plunged down the 
hill toward my Grotto, a rugged spot in the ravine 
which had been dedicated to moods and reveries. 
For some days I had feared to seek my favorite 
nook; but this day some occult force seemed to 
draw me. I lolled for a time upon the mossy 
stones; but that old-time feeling of sweet seclu- 
sion had deserted the sacred precincts. A squir- 
rel sputtered at me from a near-by limb. A wood- 
chuck, whom I had obliged tO’ beat a hasty retreat 
into his hole in the bank, protruded his head for 
a closer survey; he no doubt took me, with my 
gray skirt, green waist, and turban, to be part of 
the moss-grown, gray limestones upon which I sat, 
for he was in no hurry to leave me. 


AN ENCOUNTER 


173 


At^ length I made my way down the ravine, 
thinking to unloose my boat for a row. Soon, 
however, I was startled by the sound of approach- 
ing footsteps. Seeing a fallen tree with its cavern- 
ous mouth turned up-hill, and thinking ever of an 
unwelcome encounter, I made haste to crouch in- 
side where I was well hidden by dead limbs and 
the surrounding underbrush. 

It was “the Sang Digger.” He passed so near 
the log in which I lay, that, had he turned, he 
would have seen me. Straight, with an assured 
familiarity of his whereabouts, he went up the 
gulch. Sometimes he stopped to listen ; and 
always, as he went, looked cautiously about. 
Then a cliff hid him. 

I watched him out of sight; then creeping out, 
followed, determined to learn of his secret busi- 
ness. On nearing the Grotto, I heard the sound 
of voices, one speaking low and hurriedly, the 
other in louder, expostulating tones. At the 
sound of the latter I shuddered. Sitting on the 
same rock that a few moments before had held 
me, was my aged kinsman, the Goblin. He leaned 
heavily upon his staff, looking up into the face of 
Mr. Lovelace, who was speaking. I could not 
hear what they said, but the young man strode to 
and fro impatiently, stopping at times before the 
old man, who seemed to offer protests to the hur- 
ried words of his companion. 

Of my feelings it is impossible to write. These 


174 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


men, then, were in league against me, plotting for 
my inheritance. For this reason they had taken 
up their abode on the mountain, and that recogni- 
tion that morning at the hut was a sham enacted 
to deceive me. My estate was a large one and 
valuable, and its possession might well entice their 
unworthy efforts, for they were next of kin, or, in 
years past, their claims may have been first. To 
keep that which was not mine, or ill-gotten, was 
not my desire; but to be secretly murdered as was 
my grandfather, and doubtless for the same rea- 
son, was still less to be thought of. Neither 
would I resign my claim through terror; so far as 
my legal guardians knew, it was undisputed, hav- 
ing been clearly stated in my father’s will, and as 
clearly passed to him by the will of my grand- 
father. What was to be done ? 

Revolving these things in my troubled head, I 
had failed to consider the probability of an en- 
counter until Mr. Lovelace turned suddenly and 
came toward me. But one way was left. 
Quickly as possible, I glided from boulder to tree- 
trunk, and thus made my way back down the 
ravine. When it became necessary to climb the 
hill to the left to reach the path, however, detec- 
tion would be unavoidable, for I wore a gaudy 
waist. Therefore, regaining the log which had 
before concealed me but could not now as he ap- 
proached its open side, I sat upon it and with what 


r. 



“ Plotting for my inheritance.” 


FACING 174 








AN ENCOUNTER 1 75 

show of unconcern was possible to me, waited the 
man I so much dreaded to meet. 

He strode rapidly along the path. That he 
had not seen me was evident from his preoccupied 
manner; indeed he might never have discovered 
me had not the log across the path compelled him 
to look up searching a way about or over it. 
Seeing me he started, came toward me eagerly — 
then, seeming to reconsider, arrested his steps. 

I said nothing, and my eyes that had devoured 
his splendid manliness as he came toward me, 
now gazed with unseeing indifference down the 
ravine. 

“How came you here. Miss Grigsby?” he asked 
at length. 

“How came you here, Mr. Lovelace?” 

“You were not here a moment ago.” 

“I was.” 

“Why then did I not see you?” 

“I do not recall that you looked; your business 
seemed urgent.” 

He made no answer. 

“You do not deny it, then?” 

“What would you have me deny?” 

“That you had urgent business.” 

“I deny nothing.” 

“‘Suppose you remove that mask, Mr. Love- 
lace,” said I, warning. “I scarcely recognize an 
old friend in such a garb — besides, it is awry.” 

Much to my surprise he raised his hand and 


176 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


took the old-man mask from his face; and here 
again stood Gogaphy, than whom I had rather 
faced a dozen Sang Diggers. 

“Many thanks for the suggestion,” he said 
smiling into my face as he folded the lifelike visor 
and put it into his pocket. “Such humbugging is 
unnecessary between us.” 

“I like you better in it however,” I replied sav- 
agely. “ ’T is more in keeping with your fraudu- 
lent practices!” 

His firm jaw set, yet he gave me no' answer. 

“Mr. Lovelace,” I said, my anger rising, “why 
do you hound me, you and your aged accomplice?” 

“I have no accomplice, neither do I plot mis- 
chief against you. Miss Grigsby, though ’t is no 
wonder that you misjudge me,” he answered 
quietly. 

“Then justify yourself, sir! I give you oppor- 
tunity.” 

“ ’T is useless, ’t is worse than useless, for you 
are a woman, and what woman is there who, 
scorning a man, will yet justify him? There is 
no sense of justice in her.” Then he added bit- 
terly: “Were I a vagabond, and your accepted 
lover — 

“Lover indeed!” I sneered. “A fine lover, 
lurking in hiding places, and not alone; sneaking 
about chimney corners at midnight; plotting with 
devils, — lover indeed!” 

“Do not distress yourself!” he replied, standing 


AN ENCOUNTER 


177 


tall and straight before me : “because I choose tO’ 
walk near your dwelling, or even to talk with 
devils in your ravine, because I cannot give you 
the reasons for my actions and my present manner 
of life, ’t is no reason that I may not yet be your 
lover; for your lover I am, your lover I have been 
all my life, and will be till death.” How proudly 
he said it, and how his eyes, the most magnetic I 
had ever seen, burned into mine the accumulated 
love of all his young years. 

But from my eyes leaped no answering light. 
I drew myself up as to repel a blow. In a fury of 
rage I turned upon him. 

“Are you aware that we have never met as man 
and woman should, that I would have been spared 
the insult of this meeting had you kept your un- 
welcome presence from where you have no right, 
no permission to intrude? Do' you know that in 
this same log I hid that I might escape you hasten- 
ing to your tryst with that demon there in my 
Grotto? For what do you torment me, dog my 
steps, threaten my life? Is it for my inheritance? 
Tell me, wretch, — hypocrite!” My hands 
clenched until the nails cut the flesh. I stood back 
against an old chestnut-tree for support. My 
eyes flashed fire, and I stamped the surrounding 
moss-bed, venting thus my wrath upon the head 
of innocence. 

The man stood quietly, his hands behind him; 


12 


178 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


but I knew that they also were tightly clenched. 
The lines of his face were tense, and I saw through 
my anger that John Lovelace was fighting a battle. 
I scarcely knew the voice that answered me, so 
strange and hollow it sounded. 

“Have you finished. Miss Grigsby?” 

“Since words fail me — yes !” and my voice, 
hoarse with rage, startled me. 

“Then I will say what I must, and we will part: 
I know well enough that you have avoided me, and 
for this I do not blame you. Why I sought you 
at first, I have already told you; a man cannot 
love a woman as I love you and remain apart from 
her when he lives so near the sound of her voice, 
the sight of her face. My feet lead me always, 
and through no will of mine, to stop near you. I 
am happy when I see the light from your window 
or hear the sound of your sweet voice, singing. It 
has been the beacon of my life — this deathless love 
I bear you, that has guided me all these years 
since that golden summer ; guided me from a pur- 
poseless existence into an earnest striving for the 
higher things in life. You have remained, amid 
all that was hard and sordid and loveless, the one 
thing bright and beautiful. Therefore I love you, 
and even thus I am content, asking no love in re- 
turn, for ’tis enough to know that this vision of 
my dream is no delusion. 

“Of late, however, it has been for a twofold 
reason that I have sought you. It has been that I 


AN ENCOUNTER 


179 


might lend you a service which, God grant, you 
will never stand in need of; but which, should you 
need it, will be given you in spite of your resist- 
ance. That I have intruded my unwelcome pres- 
ence in your neighborhood has been of late a 
necessity that I cannot explain. If you think a 
man whose duty cannot be explained must be a 
man without honor, you are mistaken. If you 
think that man finds pleasure in every duty im- 
posed upon him, you deceive yourself also. It is 
what we must do for conscience sake, those duties 
that one cannot shirk and look God and man in the 
face, that make men of us. My workshop has 
ever been duty, its furnace affliction. The finished 
product Twill render to my Great Taskmaster — I 
own no other. 

“The other morning I called that I might ex- 
plain, so far as was possible, my position, but you 
would not see me. Now I feel that you will not 
understand, nor, understanding, will concern your- 
self. I shall remove my hated proximity from 
you at my earliest opportunity, but not until all 
cause of danger be removed from you. So fear 
no alarm. Miss Grigsby; go on your gladsome 
way, and forget that I, with my burdened life, 
have crossed your pathway.” He lifted his hat 
and passed me, moving at a weary pace down the 
path to the river. 

In an instant I was by his side, and my hand 
that touched his arm trembled. 


i8o 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“Stay I” I whispered hoarsely. “I will not let 
you go thus! If I have been cruel, unwomanly — 
forgive me I I but seek a solution to this mystery. 
I do not understand — I must know 1 Would to 
God I could trust you I Tell me, for I have suf- 
fered enough.” 

“You do not know what suffering is!” he 
answered fiercely. “You cannot, for you do not 
love!” 

“My heart is dead, I think,” I replied wearily, 
“but still I suffer.” 

Suddenly he confronted me, and look searchingly 
down into my eyes. Then a light overspread his 
face as the coming of dawn illumines the face 
of night; and a passionate trembling convulsed 
him. Ere I knew it, he took my hand, and, rais- 
ing it to his lips, pressed burning kisses upon it, 
while he murmured : 

“O Patsy, my beautiful girl! you love me, you 
cannot deny it!” 

But I thought of the dumb girl. Then some- 
thing gripped my heart; then, as an iron band, 
seemed to choke me. I tore myself from him, 
and grasping a hawbush for support, drew myself 
up proudly. 

“How dare you !” 

“You are mine, you have been mine for years; 
nothing can take you from me, for I know that you 
love me.” 


AN ENCOUNTER 


l8l 


“Do I deserve this insult of you?” I cried, 
scarcely knowing what I said. 

“I am not so unworthy of you,” he answered 
with proud confidence, and holding himself 
straight before me. 

“I fail to see it!” I sneered. “A mountain 
hovel for a home where someone listens for your 
footsteps I” 

Again his lips set rigidly. 

“If you think of the dumb girl, she concerns us 
not in this matter.” 

“Your concern for her seems small indeed! 
How many a midnight finds her sitting alone on 
that mountain awaiting your return from your 
prowlings? A fine guardian, such a one, to be 
seeking an additional charge.” 

He regarded me silently, and not without some 
satisfaction. 

“Who is she and what is she to you?” I de- 
manded. 

“She is not what you suspect.” 

“Then tell me.” 

“Will you not trust me, and believe when I tell 
you that your suspicions are unfounded?” 

“You speak of love and ask me to trust,” I re- 
plied scornfully; “where is your trust and your 
confidence ? I am but a woman, and as all women, 
I must know. We take nothing on trust when 
it comes to the loves of men.” 

He was silent. 


i 82 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“I am not a tattler,” I pleaded. 

“Would I have unmasked before you to-day 
had I thought you were?” 

“ ’Tis a little thing I ask,” I coaxed again, for 
it seemed that I must know this thing. “See, I do 
not question your disguise; also I trust you when 
you say that you are in no league with that demon 
to work me ill — I trust your word when all evi- 
dence is against you, and in spite of many fears. 
But, of the girl I must know.” 

“Would I could tell you!” he exclaimed ear- 
nestly. “Can you not understand that, loving you 
as I do, and desiring above all things your favor, 
I would gladly hold nothing from you. Were 
this secret mine how willingly would I confide in 
you ! But I guard in honor that of another whose 
confidence it is not mine to give. Will you not 
trust me though I cannot tell you?” 

“Let me not see nor hear of you again, sir!” I 
cried bitterly; “I will have no such lover!” 

And turning without a backward glance, I left 
him standing, his arm pressed against the chestnut 
upon which I had myself so lately leaned for sup- 
port. 


CHAPTER XIV 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 

Mr. Murray and I were sitting before the 
library grate, having just finished a chafing-dish 
feast of Welsh rarebit, one of my specialties. Of 
late he had called often; and we were now on a 
footing of easy friendship. It is hard to tell how 
dreary these days might have been for me had not 
his companionship brought at times a cheery beam 
of sunshine. For companionable he was, — and 
versatile, and it had never been my pleasure to 
know a more carefully trained mind than his. 
How often, as I sat listening to the luminous play 
of his intellect, did I compare him to those who 
had been my companions in that old frivolous life, 
wondering what I, too, might have made of my 
empty years had there been such as he tO' show me 
the folly of them. 

The night was one of December’s worst efforts. 
A penetrating drizzle, setting in at nightfall, had 
been fanned by a northeaster into a veritable bliz- 
zard. At every onslaught of the gale the shutters 
clattered a loud protest, receiving for answer a 
small fire of dead leaves, twigs, and sleet from the 
invading hosts of Boreas. Such a night it was as 
to freeze to the marrow all who ventured without.. 


184 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


But a night when a fire-warmed ingle, a book, or 
better still, a congenial friend, furnish to the con- 
tented mind all that life holds to desire. 

My companion seemed troubled. For a time 
he sat near me in silence ; then he went to 
stand by the window where a shutter had blown 
back, letting a track of fire glow out across the 
waste of night and tempest. I went over beside 
him. 

Sermon-building?” I asked. “Or does the 
captive eagle beat his wings to be off in the 
storm?” 

“Such battling of the elements makes me ever 
thoughtful, thoughtful and reverent before Him 
who holds these forces, and us, in the hollow of 
His hand.” 

“And on such nights as these I am not thought- 
ful nor reverent, but contented and happy,” I 
answered him. 

“Is not happiness but the offering up of our con- 
certed powers in one harmonious song of gratitude 
to Him who made us to be happy? Is it not an 
unconscious response to that divine intention begun 
in our first parents and thwarted by their delib- 
erate disobedience?” 

“How much of our pleasure or sorrow in life 
comes through comparisons?” he observed after 
a silence between us. “For instance, how invit- 
ing seems this fireside after a glimpse out into this 
night ! And what would it mean, think you, to a 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


185 


belated traveler lost in the tempest and darkness 
to be hailed hither and sheltered for the night? 
There are many such out in this very storm. It is 
thinking of them that alloys the otherwise perfect 
content that I feel on such an evening.” 

How little he knew that as he spoke thus, and 
at every blast of the gale, there passed along my 
heart’s tendrils a shiver as I thought of him who 
endured, for the sake of a secret duty the martyr- 
dom of exile there on that bleak mountain I But 
I answered carelessly : 

“You should not think so much, old grave-dig- 
ger; you should learn my secret. When I close 
yon door on the night, I close it likewise on the 
world and its woes. Must I chase about the bur- 
den of another’s misery, when God has given me 
comfort? These are gifts from His hand.” 

“You cannot close your doors on the sorrows of 
your kind,” he replied earnestly. “Pain and pleas- 
ure go ever hand in hand. This is the common 
lot, and we bear it in common for we are members 
of a brotherhood. Can we think of the misery, 
the degradation of lives less favored than ours; 
can we listen to the cry of the mother as she clasps 
a small cold form to her heart; can we watch the 
shivering child whose hand is outstretched to us 
for food, — can we, able to help or to comfort, 
turn from them to our selfish pleasures? The 
true enjoyment of wealth lies only in its proper 
use, — the alleviation of the universal woe, the ele- 


i86 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


vation of the race. In such works alone is man to 
find the door to happiness. Do you not know that 
the universal law of nature is service? The plant 
offers up its life for man or beast or for the fertili- 
zation of the soil ; the lives of the creatures make 
up one ceaseless sacrifice for man; and man, too, 
must give of his best to others, imitating the per- 
fect example of Him who pleased not himself.” 

“Then if one man serves, another must be the 
recipient of that service and rest in the enjoyment 
of it,” I replied. “Such is my fate; because of 
the labors of those now gone I rest secure from 
even a thought of care.” 

“Ah, there you err I” said my companion. 
“Their service is yours only in transition. It stops 
to bless you on its flight down the generations, 
trusting to you to fulfill your part in its wider dis- 
semination. We cannot live unto ourselves; we 
are, whether we wish it or no, bundles of influence 
for good or for ill. We scatter, as we tread life’s 
pathway, the straws from that bundle; words, 
spoken or withheld; deeds of service or of selfish- 
ness; examples, worthy of emulation, or unpraise- 
worthy; and those subconscious operations of 
mind and spirit over the minds and spirits of those 
about us. Life is, then, a loan from our Maker 
to be returned with usury.” 

“Then I fear I am a failure,” said I, “for my 
life has returned no dividends.” 

“Miss Grigsby,” — Mr. Murray, who had 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


187 


while speaking walked up and down the library 
floor, now stopped facing me — “you are capable 
of a fuller life than you now live. God lays not 
his plans carelessly; His hand has guided you 
here, and though you may refuse to see it. He 
calls you to service.” 

“Me? Pray what can I do?” I threw myself 
playfully into a chair by the table and took up a 
pen. “Is it a check? ’T is easy enough, — a 
scratch of the pen with no fear of a stint in conse- 
quence.” 

My companion sat down beside me, and took 
the hand on which two jewels flashed their cold 
luster. I withdrew it quickly. That cold hand 
with its colder glitter of gems, seemed an incon- 
gruity in the warm, human clasp of the minister. 
I fell to twisting the gleaming turquoise and dia- 
mond around into my palm well out of sight. 

“Are you capable of a sacrifice?” he asked after 
a pause. 

“I know not what that is,” I answered, trying 
hard to conceal my eagerness. 

“It is a sacrifice of time and ease ; it is a burden 
of responsibility — a heavy one. Will you teach 
the village school?” 

“Good Gracious!” I sprang to my feet, and 
stood glaring at him. 

“Will you?” he repeated. 

“Do I look as though I needed a job?” 

“Yes.” 


i88 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“Indeed!” There was a swish of silken skirts; 
It had now come my turn to tread the polished 
floor of the library. 

“I do not wonder at your consternation,” he 
said. “I should not have come to you to-night 
did I not know you better than you seem to know 
yourself — no, wait till I explain — ” (for I had 
begun a violent protest). “The school Is In a 
dire strait. Already two months have passed, and 
three teachers have. In turn, undertaken and failed 
to bring order out of chaos. The first teacher, a 
child of eighteen, was taken from the ranks of last 
year’s Incorrlglbles, and consequently recognized 
by her one-time co-workers of mischief to be no 
better than they. In her second week she was 
barred out of the building because of the intercep- 
tion and perusal of certain love notes, the writing 
of such being an art perfected by herself during 
last year’s term. She went home that morning in 
hysterics which the Lord overruled wisely to termi- 
nate In nervous prostration. Teacher number 
two came from nowhere in particular with no re- 
commendation, and left In a fortnight bearing less 
than none with her. The third was a young fel- 
low from the University whose health, falling at 
college, he thought to recuperate by a tussle with 
village genius. The tussle resulted disastrously 
for him, however, for he now lies 111 with fever. 

“The directors are In despair; they declare that 
no teacher can be found to undertake the school. 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


189 


which, I fear, suffers from an undeservedly harsh 
reputation. The children are by no means wholly 
at fault. Many of them are quick-witted, eager 
to learn, and faithful, but they are victims of a 
sadly defective school system. The school appro- 
priations are not sufficient, — and this in a thriving 
district, — to induce competent teachers, who have 
spent time and money in preparation, to offer their 
services. Consequently, the work devolves on 
those who either work for extra pin money, or as 
a stepping-stone to better things. 

“Then, every year comes a new teacher with a 
different degree of intelligence, and different 
methods of work. Often new text-books are intro- 
duced ; and thus it results that, in the short five or 
six months’ session, the children lose so much time 
in the initiation into new books and methods, and 
in learning to know their teacher, that the close 
of school finds them scarcely settled into their 
groove of study. But there are other disad- 
vantages : 

“The tots must trudge, many of them, long dis- 
tances over incomprehensibly ill-kept roads, 
through days or weeks of fearful weather. Often 
they are insufficiently clad and are allowed by 
ignorant parents tO' cough and sniffle throughout 
the winter with ‘nothing but a cold’. But the 
greatest enemy which the school system in this dis- 
trict has to face is the indifference of the parents 
themselves to the crying needs of education. 


190 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

Their action in the matter is simply disgusting! 
The children are allowed to stop at home for any 
and every trivial reason: the need of a clean gar- 
ment, when the mother may have spent the whole 
previous day in gossip with a neighbor; a fancied 
dislike for the teacher on the part of the child; a 
fancied neglect of the child on the part of the 
teacher; errands that the child must run for the 
mother; even, in many cases, because the child 
simply does not wish to go, or does not rise from 
bed in time. Further than the ability to ‘read, 
write, and figger’, the object of education is lost 
with these narrow-minded creatures. What use to 
preach to them of the soul uplift, of the larger 
grasp on life, its blessings, its responsibilities I 
They should be forced by law to see that their off- 
spring are placed under thorough school training 
in order that they may grow into such men and 
women as our country districts need. Until then, 
I see little hope for the country.” 

“And you believe me equal to this?” I asked, 
pleased that he so trusted me. 

“I do.” 

“And if I join the ranks as teacher number four, 
will the minister offer himself as number five?” 

“There is to be a number four and no more,” 
he replied, smiling. 

“And what remuneration am I to expect?” 

“Twenty — possibly twenty-five — dollars per 
month.” 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


191 


“And hours — ” 

‘‘9 A. M. to 4 P. M.” 

“And number of pupils?” 

“Twenty to forty, ranging in years from six to 
twenty.” 

“Do I appear to equal your sum total of re- 
quired powers?” 

“I stake you against the three.” 

“And why, may I ask, do you assume this re- 
sponsibility?” 

“The directors, who seem indifferent, threat- 
ened to close the school : I thought of you, and be- 
sought a respite.” 

“You surely have not mentioned my name in 
connection with this thing?” I turned on him 
fiercely. 

“I am not such a diplomat as that,” he ans- 
wered, smiling again at my unfeigned distress. 
“Perhaps you might now have felt an added obli- 
gation had I already implicated you.” 

For a while I walked the floor in silence. 
Then I took a stand by the open shutter and made 
certain mental observations: how delightful to 
think of, — a tramp to a cold, leaky schoolhouse 
through such a tempest, with a dinner-pail snack 
at twelve, instead of Aunt Judy’s delectable lunch 
at one-thirty I What of that nap at two, which 
to forego seemed almost to desecrate some ancient, 
inviolable edict? What of the all-day rambles? 
The wind gave an agonizing howl as it fled around 


192 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


the corner of the old mansion. The bare, soggy 
arms of a poplar, struck by the blast, shivered 
across the track of light from the open shutter as 
the giant bowed beneath the burden of winter. A 
sparrow, dislodged by a gust of wind and at- 
tracted by the friendly glow, drove its bewildered 
wings against the pane just above my head and 
fell, stunned, upon the veranda. 

Mr. Murray came over to me, and raising the 
sash, rescued the small, resistless creature, warm- 
ing it in his palm: “Poor wee thing!” he mused. 
“Groping for light and misguided I” 

I Stood silent, while over and over those words 
addressed me: “groping for light — groping for 
light, and misguided!” 

“Mr. Murray,” I said at length, and my voice 
must have suggested some encouragement, for he 
turned to me eagerly, “tell me truly why you think 
me capable of this?” 

“My reasons are many and well founded. In 
the first place, to me you confess, by your act of 
leaving a gay life to settle here, a desire for some- 
thing more soul-satisfying, more congenial to one 
of your intellectuality. Then, you are a college 
graduate, one who must have high ideals of life, 
and a desire for the uplift of humanity. These 
ideals you will impart by unconscious influence to 
the young and impressionable minds about you, 
with far-reaching results. You have no duties, 
and duties you should have. Then, and best of 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


193 


all, you have personal magnetism, tact, a love of 
Nature, and ‘a way with children’. I have 
watched how they already love you.” 

“That is because 1 love them. Untutored in 
the ^ arts of grown-ups, I find in them that sim- 
plicity, that trust and guileless love, for which my 
soul longs. They do not seem to me as mortals, 
but angels just from the hand of God and ‘trailing 
clouds of glory’ as they come.” 

“I thought,” he said, “that you might help 
them, might show them something better than 
they know.” 

“I know I ought!” I cried. “I am an anchor- 
less ship drifting to no purpose 1 I need duties 1 
But oh, sir! I am not what you think me; you do 
not know me — my past — ” I faltered. 

He took both my hands in his and bent over me. 

“I know more than you believe of your past, 
and I know that you can and you will. I trust you 
to answer The call of your higher nature, — I trust 
you because I — ” 

I sprang to my feet for there was a light in his 
eyes that was unmistakable. 

“Leave me now,” I entreated. “I will think it 
over to-night and to-morrow; after that you shall 
have your answer, and, Mr. Murray — I thank 

you-” 

Then he, stooping suddenly, pressed his lips to 
my hand and was gone. 

13 


194 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Outside was the moaning of wind, the swish of 
intermingled rain and sleet, and the world with its 
millions of creatures : some sheltered, care-free as 
was I ; others, cold, hungry, dying, some of whom 
my hand, outstretched in time, might have com- 
forted or saved. Could I afford to sit thus, my 
talents hidden under the thick-lined bushel of 
selfishness, when duty called in tones that were 
clarion? Had I ever helped a soul in actual hand 
or heart service? Had I not rather hindered? 
At this thought a band gripped my throat, and I 
threw myself upon my knees by the arm-chair, and 
prayed my first genuine prayer for months — a 
prayer for forgiveness, for strength, for an open 
vision of that highway into the joyful fields of 
service and self-sacrifice. Above me the calm, 
sweet faces on the wall looked down from out the 
years approvingly. Their prayers were answered : 
the last of the Grigsbys would hencefoirth be 
worthy of a noble ancestry. 

I rose with a great peace in my heart. My 
mind was resolved: I would teach the village 
school. V 

I turned to the open shutter to make it secure 
for the night, but instantly stood transfixed with 
astonishment. There outside the window in the 
path of light, a face was silhouetted on the black 
canvas of night. It disappeared instantly; but I 
knew from her heavy hair that my midnight vis- 
itor was the dumb girl from off the mountain, 


SCHOOLMISTRESS-ELECT 


195 


Going to the window, I raised the sash and 
called: “You poor child, come in to the fire!” 
There was no response and I saw nobody. Hurry- 
ing out on the veranda with a lighted candle, I 
searched carefully about; no one was there. Re- 
gardless of rain and tempest I even went round 
the house toward the river, and called her. The 
swish of the dripping boughs and the sob of the 
storm-wind answered me. She was gone. 


CHAPTER XV 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 

“Miss Patsy?” Billy’s feather duster bobbed 
in and out at random among the chair rounds, 
transferring certain scattered fragments of dust 
from unobtrusive and inoffensive positions to 
points of vantage about my person and over the 
tray of tea and toast from which I struggled to 
make an unwilling breakfast. It had long since 
been forced upon me that Aunt Judy permitted no 
fasting; and the sooner the inevitable was ac- 
cepted and got through with, the better. 

“Billy, can’t the dusting wait?” I asked, at- 
tempting the difficult feat of sneezing and simul- 
taneously swallowing at a conglomeration of dust 
and He-No. 

“Ise jes’ reddin’ up a little. Miss Patsy; aint 
gwine sweep — Miss Patsy, you aint loss yo’ 
money, is you?” 

“What?” I gasped. 

“Miss Williams ’lows you gwine teach dem 
young heathents down dyar in Purgatory.” 

“Goodness, Billy — where?” 

“In Purgatory; dats de schoolhouse down dyar 
furninst de ribber.” (And only last night I had 
heard it myself!) 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 


197 


“Where on earth did she get her information?” 

“She step ober dis mornin’ bringin’ a quart can, 
an’ ax fur a sprinkle o’ salt; den she sot de en- 
durin’ mornin’, her yearn fyar cocked fur enlight- 
rnent. She shore ’lectrify me by ’nouncin’ dat meh 
little Missis done loss all her money, an’ had 
obliged ter teck ter teachin’ — ’lowed it might meek 
you more neighborly. Dat critter shore am a 
sadger — common ez jimpson weed! dey aint no 
more refinery in dat greaser den dat long-snouted, 
razzor-back, brinnel shoat o’ Uncle Isham’s long- 
side o’ yo’ white Pole an’ Chiney!” 

Could the minister have betrayed me? Impos- 
sible! Yet it troubled me for so much as a doubt 
to come between us; so, with my usual eagerness 
to get at the fountain-head of mischief, I soon 
found myself knocking at the door of my good 
neighbor. 

She was not at home, having gone to the village 
for supplies. The children, long ago won over by 
ice cream and candy treats, crowded about me. 
They said little but did much: they fondled my 
umbrella and watch chain; they rubbed down my 
skirt many times with admiring, greasy fingers; 
one boy climbed the back of the chair and stroked 
the breast on my turban affectionately; one girl 
donated a leaf from a sickly geranium on the win- 
dow; while the baby but one came toddling with 
a sore-eyed, wheezy kitten whose patient resigna- 


198 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


tion to martyrdom was worthy of a saintshlp, and 
offered the battered remnant upon my lap. 

Soon a loud wail rose from the yard, whither 
the baby had betaken himself unnoticed by little 
Susie, the oldest and his nurse. Ere she could gain 
the door, however, the mother came in, the squeal- 
ing youngster under one arm, her parcels strewing 
a path to the gate from under the other. Drop- 
ping bundles and baby, she made a dive at Susie. 
The child dodged, but not in time, and received a 
stinging blow on her cheek. Her eyes filled with 
tears; but she cowered in a silence born of long 
necessity before the offended parent. 

“Haven’t I done told you to keep that child out 
of them currant bushes ! Readin’ some fool book, 
I ’ll be bound, you lazy, — ” 

“Good morning, neighbor!” I said, rising from 
a corner behind the stove. 

“Land Sakes, Miss Grigsby! How delighted I 
am! Been waitin’ long? Susie dear, rest the 
lady’s wraps, — dear me ! these children is sights, 
and brand-clean aprons on this mornin’ ! Jim, put 
them rough-dried clothes on the bed and give the 
lady the rocking-chair. I stepped over a minute 
this mornin’ and the niggers said you was sick — 
better? Hush, hush, pet lamb!” she coaxed the 
youngest, hastening to administer the consolation 
usual in such extremities. 

“Mrs. Williams,” I began as soon as the din 
ceased, “Dilly told me that on your word I am to 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 1 99 

teach the village school; I came to ask the source 
of your information.” 

“Dilly ’s storying, Miss Grigsby! You can’t be- 
lieve one word a nigger says. I aint breathed such 
a thing — what ’s a rich woman need to bother with 
a passle of young hyenas like them for?” 

“Now, Mammy!” chimed Jim and Susie. 

“Hush, gal !” Jim was the eldest and a boy, 
hence above reproach. 

“But I am,” I said quietly. 

“I knowed it — I knowed it!” she exclaimed ex- 
ultantly; “aint I done told Mrs. Jones the min- 
ister had you in mind!” 

“Oh, Mammy, please let me go!” pleaded 
Susie. “I want to study so I can be a school- 
teacher!” 

“No, you aint goin’ a step, so just shut up ! 
You’ve got too much foolishness about you now, — 
anyhow, I can’t spare you with all the work, and 
baby that fretful!” 

I looked at the sallow little face, on which the 
canker, care, had already begun its devastation; 
my heart was touched with pity for this misunder- 
stood child, and burned with indignation against 
this monstrosity of a mother. 

“Yes, Susie is going,” said I, beckoning the 
sobbing child to me, and putting my arm about 
the little figure already bowed down by the bur- 
den of unremitting baby-tending. “Have you no 
ambition for your child, Mrs. Williams? If she 


200 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


desires something better for herself than a life 
of drudgery, is her mother the person to hinder 
her?” 

“I don’t see the use in it, that ’s all. None of 
that stuff helps her to cook and sew and clean, and 
as to teachin’ — that ’s bosh ! She ’ll marry like I 
did — then where ’s the teachin’ ?” 

“A school of six isn’t to be despised.” 

“You aint never had no children! Talk about 
a mother raisin’ a gang like mine and teachin’ ’em 
too !” 

“Wouldn’t you be proud of Susie at the close 
of school if she came out ahead and you saw her 
marching up for her prize? I have often heard 
that a mother’s proudest moment is when her child 
attains first merit over all competitors, and steps 
out to the admiring gaze of friends.” 

“And dressed in white with pink ribbons and 
flowers in her hair, — tell you what, Susie, I ’ll 
nurse up that geranium and pinch back the buds 
and let it bloom out in March. Scarlet and pink 
aint a bad combination when flowers is scarce, is 
it. Miss Grigsby?” 

“Lovely!” I exclaimed, charmed that I had at 
last touched the vulnerable spot. “So you ’ll let 
her go?” 

“Well, I guess I can manage somehow if I have 
to neglect the young ones some,” she said, heaving 
a sigh. I looked about upon the besmeared and be- 
tousled brood, considering what further neglect 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 201 

might be able to accomplish. But the minister 
was not yet vindicated. 

“Your powers of discernment are prodigious, 
Mrs. Williams! Not a soul has heard of this 
from me. Where did you get your informa- 
tion?” 

“I am out of the ordinary discernin’, folks say,” 
she avowed proudly. “When Mrs. Jones told me 
that Mr. Murray told the board he had someone 
in view, I said to her he meant you, because he 
wouldn’t be trampin’ through that wilderness so 
often for nothin’. She said maybe he was courtin’ 
you.” Her accents bristled with interrogation, 
and scenting danger ahead, I rose and fled ig- 
nominiously. I had scored twO' points, however; 
my friend had not deceived me; and Susie would 
go to school. I thought of the shriveled arms 
that had clung to me, and the tear-stained face 
that had rested for a short five minutes out of a 
loveless life in a new sense of sympathy and peace 
upon my shoulder; and, as I trudged home 
through mud ankle-deep, the way seemed strewn 
with flowers. 

On Monday morning, one hour earlier than her 
wont, Dilly, previously instructed, wakened me. 
I groaned and shifted my position slightly. How 
soft was the bed, and how sweet was sleep at 
seven-thirty A. M., when energetic ones had been 
long abroad! For some minutes a war waged. 
Then, having put to flight the tempter who urged 


202 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


the sending of a note pleading indisposition, I 
got up, dressed, and surveyed myself in the mir- 
ror. My costume of blouse, short walking-skirt 
and gaiters so exaggerated my diminutiveness 
that I called to Dilly to bring my longest and 
severest skirt. Whereupon that lady, much dis- 
gusted at being compelled to assist at the toilet of 
a school m’am, flung a cobwebby creation of gray 
crepe, chiffon and lace upon the bed, expressed 
some opinion of “preachers whar meddles in ’fairs 
day aint got no Scriptur fur,” and fled into her 
room, slamming the door with such violence that 
a mirror fell from my hand and shivered to atoms. 

Seizing the moment alone, I got together the 
fragments and hid them, knowing that, were 
Dilly to see that broken mirror, she would at once 
make arrangements for my funeral. Then I hung 
the reception gown back in the wardrobe, and 
opened Dilly’s door cautiously. 

“What ’s all this commotion about, girl?” 

She sobbed busily for a minute while I stood by 
waiting the ebb tide. Then she opened up her 
storehouse of grievances : 

“Ise scandelized, dat what I is! Is you gone 
clean crazy. Miss, or is you jes’ conjured?” 

“You are free to go when you wish, Dilly,” I 
said, dolefully. 

“I jes’ knowed you was wearied ob me — I jes’ 
knowed it!” 

“Now Dilly—” 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 


203 


“I knows Ise nebber bin cable o’ given you satis> 
factionment, howsomebber I done try — !” Loud 
blubberings checked further utterance. 

“Dilly, haven’t we been chums from child- 
hood?” 

“’Deed we has, Miss!” 

“Have I ever wanted to be rid of you?” 

“If you is you aint signify it.” 

“Then why think so now?” 

“Kayse if you resigns bein’ a lady you kyarnt 
keep no lady’s maid to mind you.” 

“Can’t a lady be a teacher?” 

“Yass’m; but a teacher kyarnt be no soft- 
skinned — ” 

“ — idle, good-for-nothing!” I finished. “That 
she can’t!” 

“I aint meanin’ dat; youse powerful ’dus- 
trious — youse busy projekin’ de endurin’ day.” 

“What at?” 

“I aint paid ter spy on de doin’s o’ meh little 
Missis.” 

“Then I ’ll tell you; I ’ve led the life of a 
humming-bird, as useless — ” 

“Hummin’-birds aint useless; dey sings — ” 

“Sings!” 

“Yass’m, an’ sucks de honey — ” 

“That ’s just it! I ’ve done nothing but suck 
honey.” 

“Dey ’s more ’n one I done seen whar act like 


204 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


dey got de ’pinion youse de honey ’sted o’ de 
bird.” 

I now made for the door — she would soon have 
the best of me. 

“Dey ’s folks as might say youse more like 
another fowl I knows den a hummer.” 

“What, a goose?” 

“No’m, a chicken.” 

“Am I SO' noisy?” 

“Youse so powerful enticin’ ter de clergy, an’ 
so powerful easy ter be took in, moreober.” 

I passed quickly down to- my breakfast; and out 
into the morning. And what a morning it was! 
How clear, cold, and crisp ! The hoarfrost lay 
thick over the brown earth-bosom, and glittered 
along weed-stems and tree-branches. The Sun, 
just over the eastern wall, sent his shafts to check 
the further incursions of the Frost King; and my 
blood leaped up to meet his fire. Then joy, hope, 
and the never-failing assurance of youth came 
bounding along that red-river current, and my 
brain sounded a clear response to the call of Duty. 
My walk lay out through the Jungle, down the 
road tO' the river, then some half-mile on to the 
right, and was an easy one when roads and skies 
were favorable. 

On reaching the school I found a motley throng 
gathered about the door and being entertained by 
a dispute in which four large boys participated. 
The contention was found to be as to whose duty 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 


205 


it now fell to make the fire in the schoolhouse 
stove. Heretofore the difficulty had been ar- 
ranged by these four boys taking week-about 
turns; but matters had been complicated by the 
two* weeks’ holiday, the question being whether the 
two boys whose time of duty fell on these weeks 
were thereby absolved from present obligation. 

The contest waged long and loud, and promised 
livelier action. Meanwhile the stove waited in 
cold and sooty indifference, and the small chil- 
dren, many of them without wraps and barefoot, 
shivered in the feeble rays of the sun. Dispatch- 
ing one of the belligerents in quest of an axe, with 
directions as to its use, I invited all of the tots who 
would to help, and set about collecting woodpile 
gleanings, the three contestants looking on in 
stubborn unconcern. The woodbox was soon 
overflowing with chips and dry wood; then, with 
the aid of an old copybook, some kerosene from a 
bracket lamp, and a match provided by myself, 
the room was soon filled to suffocation with smoke 
from the cold, damp flue. The children, crowd- 
ing about the stove, seemed used to such exhibi- 
tions of ill-temper; but I was not, and my weep- 
ing elicited much interest. 

When the smoke had sufficiently cleared to ren- 
der the children visible, I hung my hat behind the 
blackboard, and rang the bell on the pine table. 

Pushing and fighting, the children shuffled into 
the four long benches that faced on either side of 


2o6 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


two tables, running lengthwise from the recitation 
bench in front almost to the door in the rear. 
There seemed to be some trouble as to satisfactory 
arrangement; and from the way certain great 
youths fell into vacant seats beside giggling girls, 
the game seemed to be not wholly one of chance. 
It took little time to rout the whole lot, and re- 
arrange them to suit myself rather than them- 
selves. 

After this came a short service, — Scripture 
reading, a song which proved to be a solo, and a 
prayer, during which there was a rapid fire of 
carefully prepared missiles, with much shuffling 
and tittering. 

Then came the roll which I thought to arrange 
in alphabetical order, discovering thereby that 
there was much yet to be learned. 

“Will all the A’s come forward to the desk?” 

One small girl rose nervously, but was jerked 
back by her plait: “Your name begins with W, 
silly.” 

“I know better; don’t ‘Annie’ begin with A?” 
A fearful din ensued, to subdue which the bell was 
rung loudly. 

“Well, let the B’s come forward.” 

After much delay five boys and two girls 
came up. 

“Come back. Bunk!” yelled a chorus; “you 
aint a B.” 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 207 

“What ’s your name, little girl?” I coaxed, put- 
ting my arm around the smaller one. 

There was no response. 

“Tell me, dear. I want to write your name 
first on this big paper — see?” 

“Carrie,” came in the faintest breath of a whis- 
per. 

“Carrie what?” 

She tugged at the brown apron that came to 
her ankle. 

“What’s your papa’s name?” 

“Her pa’s name is Jim Dixon,” interrupted the 
larger girl. “She came up ’cause I did; her ma 
said she must stay with me.” 

“O, yes — and your name?” 

/ “Mary Agnes Burks.” 

At last I had a name. 

“Her name aint Burks,” screamed a voice from 
the rear. “Her step-pa ’s named ‘Burks’, she ’s 
a Smith.” 

“Ma said I could write my name ‘Burks’ ’cause 
it would sound uncommoner to teacher,” an- 
nounced Mary Agnes. 

“Well?” I looked at the largest boy. 

“James Garfield Brown,” he answered proudly. 

“Good! And yours?” 

“Abraham Lincoln Brown.” 

“And yours?” 

“John Brown.” 


2o8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


I moved uneasily, for I had deep-seated convic- 
tions as to what Virginia politics should be, and 
like not tO' have my convictions disturbed. 

“And yours?” to the next. 

“Billy.” 

A loud titter arose. The boy blushed but said 
nothing. 

“What is it?” 

“Billy Buhl.” 

“What a high-sounding name!” I said in real 
earnest. “The leading physician of our city has 
that same name.” 

“He is my father’s cousin,” said Billy. 

“Really?” I looked the boy over. He was a 
fine specimen, though painfully self-conscious and 
awkward. “You ’ll be a leading man some day 
somewhere, Billy, I am sure of that,” I said 
warmly. 

He ducked his head, but I saw by a glance from 
his eye that Billy had forgotten the jeers of his 
schoolmates, and had become from now on my 
champion. 

A hand now waved above a small red head. 

“Our teachers don’t never take the roll that 
way; they begins at the littlest and ends at the 
biggest.” 

That this was wisdom born of experience was 
not to be denied. However, it was not for me to 
confess defeat to a diminutive red-head; so, tak- 
ing the paper in hand, I went up and down the 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 209 

lines taking the names consecutively. Next I 
called up the primer class, and found my troubles 
but just begun. These children ranged from six 
to twelve years; some were bright, some stupid; 
some had one style of primer, some another; some 
had none. In disgust I ordered the books closed, 
and turning to the board, printed the letter U 
on it. 

“What’s this, Mary?” 

Silence. 

“What is it, Gertie?” 

Several hands went up. 

“What 'is it, Sam?” 

“That ’s ‘me’,” answered Sam. 

That Sam should have been selected to give the 
name of that letter I soon found to be unfortunate 
in the extreme; for this the children had scarcely 
dared to hope, and in the din which ensued I rang 
the bell many times in vain. 

“That ’s U, Sammy — the letter U; repeat it.” 

“Me,” repeated Sammy. 

A large girl waved her hand. “Please, teacher, 
Sammy ’s been to school six months and aint never 
learned U yet.” 

The child looked up at me through streaming 
eyes. 

“If you whips me like they all do, I ’ll run off 
sure!” 

“You poor little fellow!” I said patting his 


14 


210 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


head. “You ’ll get it yet, and I ’ll not whip you, 
either; all of us say ‘me’ much too often.” 

I now sketched with poor skill the picture of a 
cat on the board, and underneath printed the name 
in large letters. 

“What ’s this, Mary?” 

The child giggled and screwed about in her 
John?” 

“It ’s a animal.” 

“Yes, but what kind?” 

“That thing aint got no name.” 

“I know,” burst from Mary, “It ’s a painter!” 

“’Taint! it ’s a polecat.” 

“It ’s a caty and this word spells ‘cat’, — look at 
it well.” 

“That aint no cat,” whispered a chubby boy 
with no' shoes and stockings, but many freckles; 
“it ’s just the picture of a cat and a pesky poor 
one, too.” 

After more time thus wasted, I sent the class 
out in the yard. My head began tO' whirl, and I 
to wonder at the endurance that had kept those 
three teachers two weeks each in this place of 
horrors. 

“Teacher,” called a gaudily dressed miss, “aint 
the fire gone out?” 

“Teacher, may I get a drink?” called another. 

I worked heroically through the day to make 
up the classes, but the task was stupendous. There 


I TASTE THE JOYS OF SERVICE 


2II 


were constant and repeated requests to leave the 
room, which, I soon learned, meant much hob- 
nobbing outside; there was much talking aloud, 
tittering, pushing, and quarreling; notes, dead 
bugs, apple cores and other articles of commerce 
were constantly moving at rapid transit hither and 
thither and yon along or across or against the 
lines of bobbing heads; in order that he recognize 
my authority, one boy was dragged by the ear to 
a conspicuous corner, to stand with his head to the 
wall for one hour; one stood upon the table for 
the same length of time; two heads, bowed over 
a game of tit-tat-toe, I rubbed together vigor- 
ously; one girl of sixteen, from whom I collected 
four notes from her several admirers, was sent 
from the room for impertinence; once a mouse 
manoeuvred my way to the amusement of all but 
'myself; and once a pig, prying open the door, 
inserted his snout and grunted a friendly greeting, 
to which the children responded in chorus. 

At last, having formed a Spelling class, and 
classes in Geography, Arithmetic, Grammar, and 
History, I drilled them for ten minutes in calis- 
thenics, much to their delight; interested them in 
a scheme to< raise money for the building of a par- 
tition to separate the tots from the older pupils; 
offered rewards for punctuality, for good be- 
havior, and for the highest average; invited the 
largest and most unruly of them to my home on 
the following evening, and dismissed them. 


212 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Tired I was, but courageous, for the day had 
not been without its consolations. Among this 
boisterous throng were children of unusual intelli- 
gence and aptitude. Many bright faces turned to 
mine eagerly. What of my opportunity to mould 
these pliable little lives? Was there ignorance, 
was there lawlessness? Then how much greater 
the need ! Could I but teach them to love me, and 
thus gain their willing obedience, the way would 
be easy. At least it was worth the effort. 

And well it was for me that Heaven’s benedic- 
tion of work fell on me now, else I might not have 
been spared to speak sanely of that which was to 
follow. 


CHAPTER XVI 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS THE PALE FEATHER 

“Has you ebber tended de circus, Missis?” 
Uncle Isham was busily engaged raking dead 
leaves into huge piles on the terrace, while I, 
lolling in the broad hammock, looked on disap- 
provingly. It had always seemed a desecration to 
me to deal thus rudely with corpses. 

Having been answered in the negative, he be- 
gan wit unusual deliberation to remove the debris 
from his rake, and continued : 

“Dat ’s mighty kuse, galivantin’ much ez you 
has. Toby shore I only goes ter see de critters; 
I aint sot no store by dem circut riders an’ wim- 
men whar outgrowed dey custumes. Aint dem 
lepperds an’ rhinocerers an’ hitterpotamers skeery 
lookin’ varmints howsom ebber?” 

“Your grandfather lived where those animals 
run at large; did you know that?” 

“Dat whar I livin’ now, an’ dat what pester 
me, an’ dat what meek I ax what I does . Is you 
hearn o’ de lepperd up on de mountain back o’ 
Hell Gate?” 

“I never hear such stuff,” I replied warmly. 

“Dey shore am a lepperd on dat mountain; an’ 
dey say, moreober, dat de Sang Digger keepin’ ’im 


214 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


hid away dyar. No rlght-mln’ man gwine up dyar 
in dat unransed place ter fin’ ’im ; but dey say ez 
how he’s bin seed prowlin’ long de ribber an’ up 
to’wds dis place. Ise kinder scared ter bum ’round 
dese nights mehself.” 

The truth dawned on me suddenly; and, 
though my cheeks began to burn and my heart to 
thump, this ridiculous solution threw me upon a 
pile of leaves in a fit of laughter. Uncle Isham, 
much offended, went off tO' rake under a distant 
oak. 

“Come back. Uncle!” I called. “I want to 
hear more of that leopard.” 

“’Taint no use goln’ inter dysterics ez I kin 
see,” grunted the old man, edging back. “If 
you ’d seed one o’ dem critters once, you ’d under- 
stan’ de gravitation o’ de circumstance 1” 

“O Uncle!” I choked; “you mean the girl — the 
Sang Digger’s daughter.” 

“Youse got de truf a little crazy-quilted, Miss; 
de gal’s de one whar got de lepperd, herself; an’ 
she mus’ take de varmint wid her, kayse dey 
kyarnt ’proach her long o’ fearin’ dat lepperd — 
dat what dey tells me.” 

“They mean the leprosy — a dreadful disease, 
worse than ten leopards. ‘Leper’ and ‘leopard’ 
sound much alike, you know. Uncle.” 

“Youse doubtedly right, Missis; howsomebber, 
I leans ter de beast side o’ de arg’ment — one o’ 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 215 


dem critters mortalized by de Holy Scripter re- 
gardin’ dey spots.” 

“I would not listen to idle gossip, Uncle. 
There is no leopard on that mountain ; and, 
though the girl is no doubt ill, she has no more 
leprosy than I have, for I have seen her, myself, 
more than once.” 

“You has!— fo’ Gord!” The rake fell to the 
ground, while his never-idle arms hung limp at 
his side. “Dat ’s jes’ what dey say, an’ I done 
meh bes’ ter conflute de statement. Dey say youse 
kahutin’ wid de Sang Digger, an’ dey gwine look 
inter de matter. Jim Williams publish it dat you 
holes candessant meetin’s wid ’im; an’ some oder 
leaky mouf say he sneaks round yer wid he wild- 
cat singin’. He aint nebber discommode me, I 
tells ’em ; an’ I ax ’em why don’ dey ax de Missis 
bein’ ez she fyar reakin’ wid knowledge. Miss 
Patsy, dem sadgers treat dat ole man scan’lous! 
dey aint gun ’im no prowishons at de stores fur 
two weeks — dey ’s cottened ’m.” 

“What?” I asked, smiling in spite of a heavy 
heart. 

“Dat ’s jes’ like I got it, — de boys cottened 
’im.” 

“Then aren’t they in need of food?” 

“Dey aint grievin’. Miss,” said Uncle Isham 
with evident satisfaction. “Does you reckerleck 
‘Lijah’, an’ dem black birds whar brung ’im he 
vittals?” He leaned on his rake in silence, await- 


2i6 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ing the ebullition of my curiosity. He had not 
long to wait. 

“Do you mean that — ?” 

“I means dat de ravens aint all dead yit, 
Missis,” he chuckled. 

“You blessed old creature! How did you man- 
age it?” 

“I aint manage it since Jim done tell rpe dat 
tale ’bout de lepperd; but I done fetch ’im apples 
an’ milk an’ Judy’s jam an’ truck de hull endurin’ 
fall — not ober de ribber, min’ you — I aint 
temptin’ o’ Proverdence dat fur — I jes’ gib ’im de 
wud not ter pass dat hollow cottenwood widout 
retchin’ up ter de shelf whar I done fix in de 
bosom o’ dat tree^ — ” 

“And you accepted pay of him?” I asked 
eagerly. 

Uncle Isham drew his gnarled figure up to what 
approximated to straightness, and I saw that a 
grave insult had been unwittingly offered. 

“I thought perhaps he would insist,” I hastened 
to explain. 

“If you ’magines yo’ ole Isham done forgot he 
raisin’, bettah turn ’im loose ter graze wid de 
sadgers! He gimme one stroke ter de fambly 
pride, but dat stroke war all, Miss ! One day he 
lef’ a bran-new dollar bill in dat tree. Den I lays 
in waitin’ ; an’ when he come, I han ’im de chink, 
an’ sez in meh importantest tone: ‘Mister Sang 
Digger, I ’senses you fur not designatin’ de lone 





) ) } 


FACING 216 


“ ‘ De ravens ain’t all dead yit, Missis ! 



UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 217 


cauliflower ’mongst de field o’ cabbages; an’ 
mebbe you aint knowed k long o’ seein’ so many 
half strainers, but de cream of Firginy quality 
aint usen ter ax no pay fur de cup o’ cole water; 
an’ if you want ter do meh lil’l Missis a favor 
don’ ax her ole Isham ter bring shame an’ infusion 
on de name o’ Grigsby.’ Den he ax who meh lil’l 
Missis? An’ I tells ’im: ‘Miss Patsy — she whar 
has de hull wurl o’ men at her feet an’ kyamt fin’ 
one good ’nouf ter tromple on.’ ‘She mus’ be 
mos’ uncommon sweet an’ lovely,’ he meek answer, 
takin’ de money I holes out ter ’im, an’ he eye 
twinklin’ ; ‘but will she an’ yo’ conshunce ’low you 
de ’ception ob a gift?’ ‘I aint got no figgers on 
dat mattah,’ sez I. An’ you b’lieve me! ’Bout 
a week arter dat dis nigger fin’ a gole watch an’ 
chain in dat tree dat I tuck home an’ Judy hid on 
de jyce kayse she say dat much pure gole on an 
ole black nigger reek too strong o’ de lock-up.” 

“But what has he done for provisions since the 
boycott?” 

“Onct a week on de Friday night at six o’clock 
he come ter de tree an’ gimme money an’ de name 
o’ he needeessities ; den I meek de purchase in de 
name o’ meh lil’l Missis.” 

“Good for you 1 When you go to-night let me 
know — I will send some bread.” 

“Dat what pester me. Miss. I kyarnt go.” 

“I thought you decided not to believe that non- 
sense about the leopard,” I answered warmly. 


2i8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“’Taint dat, Miss, ’pon de wud o’ meh honor! 
Ise got a tetch o’ de rumatics, an’ de night air 
nusses up dat misery scan’lous. Moreober, Judy 
done gimme meh orders dat she aint gwine iron 
does all day an’ spen’ de hours o’ res’ ironin’ meh 
ole stiff jints.” 

“’Twould be a shame to let them suffer through 
an idle tale; I ’ll go with you if that will help 
you.” 

“Rumatics aint no idle tale, Miss; an’ how 
come you goin’ gwine keep off de night air?” 

“You were in the village until ten last night — I 
fail to see the difference. You ’re afraid of that 
leopard, that ’s what!” I said scornfully. 

He looked at me thoughtfully a moment, then 
the truth came out. 

“Does you want dem sadgers ter tar an’ fed- 
der me, or run me outen yo’ service by de use o’ 
mortified eggs?” 

I looked at my watch. It was now four o’clock 
and no time was to be lost. Stealing into the 
pantry I packed a basket with what groceries and 
provisions were to be found, and slipped off 
through the barnyard to the river. Could I but 
gain the cottonwood and deposit the load unob- 
served! I looked carefully up, down, and across 
the river, but saw no one. Then, hastening, I ful- 
filled my errand; and, having pinned to a loaf of 
bread a note purporting to be Uncle Isham’s, in 
which I requested that Mr. Sang Digger make his 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 2ig 

further needs known by writing, I turned — to. 
meet the gaze of Mr. Lovelace, who, undisguised, 
had crossed the river and drawn up to shore while 
business was in progress inside the tree. 

In an instant he was before me, completely 
blocking the path. Then he spoke in a voice well- 
nigh choked by emotion : 

“I can never thank you enough for this — for 
your kindness of which I am unworthy.” He 
would have taken my hand but I drew myself 
back proudly. 

“Spare your thanks for him to whom they are 
due. I am but an unwilling deputy.” I made to 
pass him, but, when he hindered me, I turned to 
mount the hill at right angles to the path. 

“Miss Grigsby,” he said, and his tone had in it 
I know not what, at which I stopped short to 
listen; “it is of utmost importance that I speak 
with you. Were it a matter that concerned my- 
self, you should be spared the seeming insult of 
this detention; but it is for your sake alone that 
I am here. For three days now I have loitered up 
and down the river in hopes of seeing you, or of 
sending you a note by your servant. This meet- 
ing was not a chance one; I saw you from the 
opposite shore, and came, regardless of your 
wishes, to speak with you.” 

I thought of the Goblin, and sat down on a log, 
shaken by a nameless dread. Then he began, 


220 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


speaking with that calm that betokens the accus- 
tomed mastery of emotion : 

“It is of a matter to which I referred vaguely at 
our last meeting that I must now speak more fully. 
There has been about of late an old man — he 
whom you met that day on the mountain — whom 
I judge to be the prey to an hallucination. Unfor- 
tunately this takes the form of a grudge against 
your house of which you are the surviving mem- 
ber. He would gladly harm you though you are 
innocent. Learning of his evil design on you, I 
have urged him to leave, but to no purpose. I 
have threatened him with the hand of the law', 
but still he slinks about, hiding away in some hole, 
the location of which is unknown to me. He 
hovers about the ravine that runs through your 
park, but I can find no caverns along its sides but 
are flooded by water. Since entreaty and threats 
avail nothing, I have taken measures to have him 
removed to a place of safety. But until that is ef- 
fected, I beg of you that you either leave the place 
for a time, or else secure better protection than 
you now have. It has been for this reason that I 
have come to watch near you at night when I knew 
you scorned me for it. It has been to effect his 
departure that I have been seen in company w ith 
him in your ravine. Had I not thought to have 
been rid of him ere now, I would have told you 
this on that day in the wood; but I cared not to 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 221 

mar, needlessly, the sweet contentment of your 
life.” 

He paused, looking off across the river. But I 
rose, my cheeks burning as I thought of the poor 
return I had given him, and of my cruel suspicions. 
I went to him, and held out my hand impulsively : 

“It is I who am unworthy of you, Gogaphy,” 1 
said, niy voice trembling. “I knew that you met 
him, and — forgive me — I thought that you two 
plotted for my inheritance; I thought this — be- 
cause — I faltered. 

“Why did you think this?” he asked eagerly. 

“ — because you are my cousin, and this old man 
is your grandfather and my great-uncle.” 

It was like a spear-thrust. He looked at me in 
silence, while there was in his eye the piteous ap- 
peal of an innocent creature led to the slaughter. 
Then, having seized my hand, he held it in a piti- 
less grip that I felt not at the moment, but after- 
ward found had crushed the flesh ; after a time he 
asked with the outward calm at which I often won- 
dered, “Have you proof of this. Miss Grigsby?” 

“Whom think you this resembles?” I asked, 
drawing my locket from my waist and holding it 
out to him. 

He looked at it; then, taking his mother’s 
locket from his pocket, laid it beside the other. 
Almost immediately he exclaimed: “Wonder- 
ful! — the hair, the eyes, the mouth — they could 
be twins I Who is he?” 


222 


THE BECKONING HEIGEITS 


“Her cousin, and my father: and since the old 
man recognized your mother as his child, and 
claims relationship with me, is not this resem- 
blance proved thereby tO' be more than an idle 
fancy?” 

“Then it is true! My God, why was I born to 
this!” he cried, loosing my hand and burying his 
face on the arm that he rested against a tree, while 
his frame shook with a misery that pierced my 
soul. 

“Gogaphy, my dear — Cousin,” I faltered, “I 
know well why you suffer through this relation- 
ship. It reveals to you a closet in which lie hid- 
den the bones of a grim skeleton. But this should 
not so distress you; that you have no dealings 
nor sympathy with him, I know right well. ’T was 
against my heart’s promptings that I once doubted 
you.” 

“How could you have done else but doubt me, 
knowing of that cursed deed, and that I, his off- 
spring, met with him, for what purpose you un- 
derstood not! Believe me, I thought him in- 
sane; I refused to listen to his ravings; I knew 
nothing of that murder, and knew not that I had 
a relation on earth. But those faces prove that 
I, who have held honor and integrity so highly, 
am the offspring of a viper and — murderer.” 

The girl on the mountain was forgotten, while 
I thought of but one thing — for I am a woman: 
the man whom I loved, as I never thought to love 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 223 


a man on earth, stood before me, and suffered, en- 
during in innocence that heritage of crime, the 
burden of which to him, with his noble views of 
life, was heavy indeed. My heart bled for him. 
I went over to him, and, pushing back the heavy 
hair that fell over the bowed head, addressed him 
gently : 

“Look at me, dear,” I said. “I can well see 
that there is none of him in you, for you have 
lived your life most worthily. It is for what you 
do, and not for what your fathers have done, that 
your account must be rendered; besides, you do 
not bear this alone; is it not my heritage of sor- 
row together with yours? Let us suffer it to- 
gether.” 

Then he took me in his arms suddenly, and, 
holding me close, whispered: 

“Oh, Patsy, my darling girl! if we must bear 
this burden together, give me the right to pro- 
tect you I My love for you has become an agony. 
I cannot bear to be apart from you, not knowing 
what danger besets you. Will you not let my 
great love for you atone for that evil done tO' 
your house by mine? I know that you love me. 
Sweetheart, your eyes tell me this; but will you 
not trust me and commit your sweet life to my 
keeping? I am not so unworthy of you, dear.” 

How well his fine eyes and his proud and con- 
fident bearing spoke for him to me of those past 
years of struggle, in which he had conquered him- 


224 the beckoning eieights 

self and the difficulties that beset him, and 
whereby he was now a conqueror of men ! 

“You are not ‘Mayer of Moo retown,’ ” I said, 
smiling up into his face. “So, how am I to know 
that you are worthy?” 

“All you need know at present is that I would 
die for you,” he murmured, kissing my hair. 

My arms went round his neck, for a sudden 
force seemed to be tearing me from him, while 
the ground reeled beneath me. 

“Tell me one thing,” I whispered, “and I will 
love you forever — ^who is she?” 

He did not answer, but held me very close as 
though fearful of what was to follow. 

“You will not tell me?” 

“I would die for you. Sweetheart.” 

“Then, tell me.” 

“Can you not trust me in this thing also? Some 
day you will know all, but now I cannot tell you.” 

Then I did what women will sometimes do, to 
repent of in anguish, and years of unrelenting bit- 
terness. I tore myself from him, and drew my- 
self up proudly : 

“You are a — hypocrite, and' I — think — I — 
hate you.” 

“Patsy,” he cried, as a soul in the bitterness 
of torture; “would you have me betray a friend, 
and impeach my honor?” 

“Go!” I exclaimed fiercely, pointing to his boat. 

“I will not go until you understand me I” 


UNCLE ISHAM SHOWS PALE FEATHER 225 


“Then I will,” I said, turning. 

‘ ‘She — is — not — ’ ’ 

“She is not your sister, neither is she old; but 
she is a woman — go !” I cried, scarcely knowing 
what I said. Then I fled blindly down the river 
path through the gathering twilight. 



15 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 

My friend Elisabeth was to pay me a visit. 
She was to arrive sometime during the first week 
in December, and I became anxious, for Elisabeth 
objects to perverse weather. Before she had an- 
nounced her intention to come to see me, I had 
often rhapsodized to her on the perfection of 
Virginia weather. Now I said nothing, but 
thought much. I even did so rash a thing as to 
consult weather prognostications, and found to 
my delight that December was mostly to be a 
month of serenest calm; nothing more fearsome 
than “fair, with southeasterly winds” was to be 
expected. What, thought I, could give more de- 
light tO' Elizabeth than a radiant December, with 
blue skies, blue hills, bluebirds deceived into song, 
and blue-blooded aristocrats coming to call ! 

On the morning of her arrival I rose early and 
looked out. All necessary preparations for a well- 
regulated mourning had been made during the 
night. A gray pall overspread the sky; and, 
searching along the eastern horizon, I found not 
the smallest rent in the close-woven veil. Even 
the mountains were hidden. Yesterday, they had 
gathered a thick veil about their bare shoulders; 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 


227 


now I knew that they, keenly sensitive as lofty 
natures always are, had felt the foreblast of the 
tempest. A penetrating wind blew steadily from 
the northeast. The few migratory birds that had 
lingered behind their fellows this mild autumn — 
postponing until necessity compelled the slipping 
away — had packed their trunks during the night 
and passed silently, shedding a tear, perhaps, on 
the thresholds of their now deserted homesteads. 
Shriveled leaves, stricken as an aged man, fell 
without complaint or useless clinging to naked 
twigs. Mingling his mottled brown with the scur- 
rying leaves, a fluffy feather-ball tossed by on the 
wings of the whistling blast — he it was, the ir- 
repressible sparrow. There was also a mournful 
procession of chickadees, snow-buntings, and 
finches, — ruffled, voiceless, drooping, — for in bird- 
dom, too, coming events cast their shadows be- 
fore. 

It has been more than two weeks since that day 
on which, draggled and chilled, her ''silk coat 
caked with mud, Elisabeth entered the portals of 
the Nunnery. Since then, the weather has be- 
haved in somewhat the following manner: two 
days — rain, with piercing winds from the east; 
one day — balmy radiance of spring; two days — 
rain, sleet, snow, with winds veering to north- 
east, north, and west; three days — bitter cold 
with high winds; one day — snow; one day — 


228 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


rain ; one day — spring warmth, with skies of 
sapphire — a day of horror to pedestrians; three 
days — rain, sleet, snow blizzard, and freeze to 
the marrow of the the earth. 

Elisabeth, whom I had never known intimately 
in the two years of our acquaintance, proved to 
be one of those rare creatures gifted with adapta- 
bility. Finding varying atmospheric conditions 
to be the rule here, she accepted them with that 
cheerfulness that sways the philosophic mind; she 
went further^ — she reveled in her isolation. When 
I moaned for her a dearth of beaux, she heaved 
a magnificent sigh of relief; she raved over the big 
fireplaces, the carved stairway, and the attic, 
teeming with musty relics; she insisted that she 
adored rats; she praised my household manage- 
ment, thereby endearing herself to me, who 
knew that her conceptions of my powers along 
this line were overdrawn. 

But what I prized most in Elisabeth was her 
delicate intuition. Her spirit, sensitive as the 
down of the milkweed, responded, as with a gos- 
samer touch, to mine; and thus were our hearts 
knit into closer sympathy. For Elisabeth it was 
who knew as none other why I hugged this life 
of loneliness ; and who more than I, could see and 
not mock at those furrows that had lately traced 
their way across her white cheeks? Sometimes, 
when in bitterness of soul I lay face downward 
upon the hearth rug, weeping, she would enter 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 229 

noiselessly, and as noiselessly retire. Then, when 
the cup had passed from me, she would take me 
in her arms, but not to peer into my swollen face, 
nor to question me. 

Never once did I mention the name of Mr. 
Lovelace; neither did I speak of the dumb girl. 
To do the latter was not possible for me; and as 
for him — perhaps he had known her in that west- 
ern city from which the Montagues had moved 
to mine but two years previously. Once — having 
heard some gossip, I presumed— she questioned 
me. With averted face I answered that, though 
it was true that these people lived on the moun- 
tain somewhere, I knew little of them, and ad- 
vised her to steer clear of them likewise. 

Not once in these weeks had I seen Mr. Love- 
lace, but my heart told me that he was still on 
the mountain; neither was I forgotten. Once 
a week there came from a florist in a neighbor- 
ing city a box of exquisite flowers, the cost of 
which no man of small means could have af- 
forded. There came, too, direct from the pub- 
lishers, books, or music — always of the best; and 
though there was no proof as to their sender, 
how well I knew! and, as I hugged these mes- 
sages from his heart tO' mine, and wept with joy, 
I knew that to him I had yielded the only and 
enduring love of a passionate, willful heart. 

On the morning before Christmas Day we 
waked to find that fairy forces had been abroad 


230 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

while we slept Molten drops had been crystal- 
lized, polished, and shaped by the skillful frost- 
smith into ten thousand fairy palaces. No tree 
but reared its head, transformed in a single night 
from a tenantless tenement into a crystal palace, 
along whose gleaming corridors stalked the frost 
king; not a humble weed but flaunted a diamond 
coronet; the clothes-lines presented a whole regi- 
ment of brightly polished bayonets, ready against 
the onslaught of the day king; even Aunt Judy’s 
turkeys, that roosted in the trees, wore brilliant 
tail trappings; but, as is also' the way with men, 
they seemed to droop beneath the burden of roy- 
alty. 

Elisabeth and I, standing at the window, 
waited breathlessly for the coming of the Sun, 
whose wont it is to stalk among these treasures 
of the boreal monarch, garner the diamonds into 
his bosom, and dash the pendent crystals to earth 
to be melted by the light of his countenance. He 
came, not slinking as is man’s way, to the plunder 
stall, but marching boldly up and casting his 
darts recklessly. Then we scarcely breathed for 
very wonder. Not all the wealth of earth could 
have combined to form so rich a scene : the whole 
world about us gleamed and flashed with myriad, 
many-hued gems; the snow-covered ground glit- 
tered with incandescent lights; and, blown hither 
and thither from treetop and housetop, they 
danced and sparkled, those fairy jewels! a hand- 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 


231 


ful of which would have ransomed the Fairy 
Queen. 

This was to be the busiest of days for on this 
Christmas Eve I had planned for an elaborate tree 
for my children. O ! we had worked, Elisabeth 
and I; and often the children had come to sit 
through the short afternoons and early evenings 
to help us. The time passed merrily in the manu- 
facture of gaily colored paper-chains, pop-corn 
strings, stars cut out of cardboard and covered 
with gilt and silver paper, and cornucopias, made 
of the same material. Also, there were boxes, and 
dainty stockings of tarlatan — one, not two, for 
each guest; and for these boxes and stockings 
much candy was to be made. Then the gifts! 
how I had labored with needle and eye salve in 
making costly presents for those who were not my 
best friends, — to atone, I presume, for the scanty 
love to accompany the gifts 1 How many inex- 
pensive but to them priceless trinkets had been 
bought for the children I Then, there were 
trifles for my friends, who thought, not of the 
gifts, but of the love prompting them; there were 
articles of use and value for the servants; there 
were apples, oranges, refreshments, and welcome 
for all. 

The tree, a symmetical juniper, was procured 
from the high cliff by the river. Standing on its 
box foundation it touched the ceiling of the 
library and was a thing of grace and beauty. A 


232 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

mysterious barrel of holly and mistletoe had ar- 
rived the day before ; and this, with spruce boughs 
and ferns gathered by many small and willing 
hands, furnished ample decoration. Ropes of 
evergreen were festooned from ancestor to ances- 
tor around the high walls; indeed, the ancestors 
seemed themselves to grow young again amid so 
much verdure, and smiled greenly down upon us. 
Wreaths of holly hung at the windows, from the 
looped portieres, and encircled the necks of Mer- 
cury and Bacchus who stood upon the mantel. 
Then there was mistletoe — quite enough to en- 
sure each maiden a kiss at one and the same 
time — dangling from the chandeliers, and every- 
where. 

The night was clear and bitter cold. No 
sounds were abroad save the crackling of boards 
and tree-trunks, and sometimes a crunch, crunch, 
over the snow, as some hungry creature tramped 
a useless round for food. There was no barking, 
for the dogs had forced an entrance into the 
kitchen along with the incoming crowd of ne- 
groes — which crowd, I noted apprehensively, had 
assumed proportions far beyond my highest cal- 
culations. I had feared lest the cold and dark- 
ness might keep many of the guests at home. Aunt 
Judy, however, with her characteristic wisdom, 
did much to allay my fears: 

“La, Miss Patsy!” she exclaimed to my fore- 
bodings, “aint de Firginy Quality dyed in the 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 233 

wool Presbyterians? Aint dey de ’Fectually 
Called? Well, de Good Book say: ‘De ’Fectually 
Called does in dis life pertake ob all de benefits 
dat flows’; an’ I calls dis tree a flowin’ benefit, 
sutiny!” 

And Aunt Judy was right; they came. 

What a time we had! How happy was I in 
the manifest joy of the school children and the 
little pickaninnies, who stood out in the hall look- 
ing for the world like wee brownies in their gro- 
tesque holiday garments, their eyes bulging with 
pent-up wonder, their nimble tongues cleaving to 
the roofs of their mouths I How they would grab 
the stockings from me, bulging as stockings had, 
for many of them, never bulged before; then, 
when Santa Claus, in regulation furs, whiskers, 
and latitudinal magnificence, offered his horns, 
jumping jacks, and tin horses, he had well-nigh 
to force them into the nerveless fingers. 

Last came music — jolly, ringing Christmas mu- 
sic; chorus songs by the children; two-steps, to 
which Mrs. Williams and Cousin Peggy kept 
rhythmic tread behind voluminous skirt folds; a 
“back’ard, for’ard, petchel, steady; parse, an’ 
swing dat lubly leddyl” for the negroes in the 
hall ; and plantation melodies, too ; and when 
Billy’s rich contralto and Jack’s tenor struck up 
“Carry Me Back To Ole Firginny,” and the 
sweet song — strangely sweet when sung by the 
people whose tragedy it tells — went on through 


234 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


the verses, I looked, with glistening eyes toward 
Elisabeth who played the chords on the piano. 
Two tears stole down her cheeks and fell on her 
dress. Mr. Murray went and stood by the raised 
blind; while over on an old settle in the corner 
Cousin Peggy, Cousin Rachel, Mrs. Williams, and 
Mrs. Martin billed and cooed affectionately. 

After the departure of the guests, I turned to 
my gifts, that I had not taken time to examine: 
from Aunt Judy, a decorated mug from the vil- 
lage store, whose lips rivaled those of the donor, 
and which bore the moth-eaten phrase “Think 
Of Me;” from Uncle Isham, a coon skin — a mark 
of high favor; from Dilly, two handkerchiefs 
that I shall carry in my hand henceforth as I am 
leaving the house for a call; from Elisabeth, a 
book, I having given her a copy of the same 
book; from Mr. Murray, a gold pen (I have five 
such, given me by men) ; from Dr. Worthington, 
a book entitled, “Annals of Augusta County,” — 
a most worthy volume. Opening it, I saw the 
names, “Grigsby,” “Paxton,” “Chandler,” “Mc- 
Nutt,” with many others; and have since felt, with 
this book on my library table, equal to any as- 
saults of the Japanese against the Virginia Valley 
aristocracy. 

There were packages containing gifts from dis- 
tant friends^ — ^Elisabeth had robbed the mail daily 
in order that my surprise be the fuller. There 
was also another package that gave me a start. 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 235 

for I had seen the handwriting once before; and, 
not caring to open it to the gaze of anyone, I 
slipped it in my waist. 

Alone in my room, I tore off the vTapping with 
trembling fingers. Did my senses deceive me? 
there before me, encased in a richly jeweled 
locket was the face of a child — a chubby girl, 
with dark brown eyes and curls flowing over fat 
bare shoulders. Turning the locket, I opened the 
opposite side; then the far-off gates of the past 
opened, and I stood with him on the bank of the 
river whose muffled boom now struck upon my 
ear. How familiar now, how like a half-forgot- 
ten fragrance recalled to life, lay the boy’s face 
before me — the great eyes, the heavy hair, the 
high forehead, the sensitive lips — looking out 
upon the world it had sworn to conquer! 

I clasped the chain about my throat — the 
locket fell over my heart. In an agony of long- 
ing I snatched it open, kissing the face passion- 
ately. Then, turning down the light, I kneeled 
beside the open window, my eyes turned to the 
mountain peaks, that piled, tier on tier, their 
snow-wrapped forms into the black sky: “Go- 
gaphy!” I cried, in a voice shaken by a hollow 
sob, “why are you there on that cold and lonely 
mountain — O, Gogaphy!” 

January passed as stable in its cold beauty as 
December had been fickle and unlovely. Morn- 


236 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ing by morning the sun rose from behind the pur- 
ple hilltops; hour by hour he strode upward, 
casting resplendent bolts of light to earth, yet 
wrought no thaw in the frozen landscape; even- 
ing by evening he sank again, a huge, blood-red 
warrior, bearing no trophies of the day’s con- 
quest; night after night glittering stars cast their 
cold, passionless eyes downward upon the numbed 
and voiceless earth. The ice lay many inches 
thick on the surface of the river; the snow lay a 
foot deep upon the levels; while against banks 
and fences, up windy ways and hollows, it piled 
yards high — enough unsullied purity to have 
cleansed the pollution of the whole earth. 

Through the gleaming corridors of the forest, 
the half-frozen wildwood creatures tracked their 
hungry ways, advancing, retreating, crossing, re- 
crossing, threading the barren aisles, — mouse, 
chipmunk, rabbit, mink, opossum, fox, — in un- 
compensating search for food; for the frozen 
breast of their foster mother offered scanty sus- 
tenance. The sweet-birch and fruit trees they 
stripped of bark; they nibbled the stems of the 
briar bushes, the berries of the wild privet; they 
burrowed tunnels under the snow to find in the 
lap of Nature her store of nuts, moss, roots, and 
seed pods ; they even braved the onslaughts 
of Topsy and the coon dog to prowl about the 
kitchen dooryard after dainty bits of cast-off veg- 
etables — such was their extremity. 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 237 

Day after day, in boots, knee-skirts, and sweat- 
ers, Elisabeth and I sallied forth bearing baskets. 
In hollow foundations of trees along the ravines 
and river brink, and in the cavernous mouths of 
logs, we spread our tables, clearing away the 
snow, and scattering grain, bits of meat, and 
scraps from off the dining table. About brush 
heaps, from under which affrighted eyes watched 
us or bobbing flagstaffs fled away, we strewed vege- 
tables — cabbage leaves, beet and turnip tops, car- 
rots, and apple parings — thus hoarding up much 
trouble and sorrow for Uncle Isham against the 
springtime gardening. But we felt well repaid 
when, on the morrow, we found that not so much 
as a crumb was to scrape away, nor one half- 
emptied platter to clean for the table’s resetting. 

Once I came upon a rabbit trap on the outmost 
limits of my wilderness. It was an oblong-box 
affair with spring triggers, set and baited. Hav- 
ing battered its brains out against a tree, I threw 
the remains over into the village road; and, since 
that day, have found no more traps. 

For the well-being of the squirrels, too, I was 
often troubled. So, taking ourselves one day to 
their favorite haunt, Elisabeth and I sat down to 
watch. Soon an inquisitive nose peeped from a 
hole in an oak-tree. We sat without moving a 
muscle while he scolded us roundly. Then he 
came down a limb or two, cocked his bushy ap- 
pendage, and sputtered at us in most impudent 


238 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

squirrel language. Finally, recognizing a friend, 
venturesome too because of hunger, he slipped to 
the ground, and dashed across the open to the foot 
of a small hickory. Here he began active opera- 
tions, and dug on through the deep snow and 
into the frozen earth until there remained the 
smallest tuft of gray hair shaking above the white 
surface. With an unerring memory for places, he 
varied not an inch from the spot where, three 
months before, he had entombed a nut; and, 
bringing it to the surface, proceeded then and 
there to enjoy the fruit of his wise forethought, 
while a jay-bird jeered at him from a near-by 
limb. 

As we sat on that snow-buried log, with that 
stillness of eternity about us, with the air so pure, 
the sky so brilliantly blue, and the earth so spark- 
ling, it seemed a bliss just to live there in the pres- 
ence of so much spotlessness, and we seemed to 
grasp for an instant the phantom spirit of child- 
hood, that, in the grasping, vanished again into 
the irrevocable past. A group of chickadees, re- 
ligiously cheerful, tumbled by, regardless of the 
fact that a great starved barred-owl sat blinking 
at us close by in the crotch of a bass-wood. The 
squirrel, his hunger appeased, scuttled up to his 
hole. The jay, now that the butt of ridicule was 
gone, came closer to see if we were worth scolding, 
but flew off in disgust. Then we heard a whirr 
of many wings coming from over the frozen ra- 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 


239 


vine-bed, and a covey of partidges settled upon 
a sunny slope near us; and there, where the sun 
had worked some thaw, they set themselves to 
scratching up and devouring the red berries from 
off a carpet of fragrant wintergreen. Thus I 
found that the Heavenly Father fed them. 

We had many feathered callers these days; and 
how friendly they now bowed to us who but 
lately would not so much as look our way ! How 
we neighbored together, — they, borrowing with 
loud promises of return when their larders were 
replenished, — ^we, giving cheerfully, and expect- 
ing nothing unless it be a sweeter spring song. 
At this season of the year the birds that remain 
with us leave the scanty covert of the woods where 
the hawk circles over the leafless trees, and the 
owl forages by the light of the stars. The cedar- 
birds had already intrenched themselves in the 
junipers about the yard, and subsisted on the soft 
ripe berries. The goldfinches flitted from weed 
to weed above the snow in the garden, thus gath- 
ering meagre seed breakfasts. Flocks of snow- 
buntings, chickadees, and the omnipresent spar- 
row, stormed the veranda itself, enticed by 
crumbs and grains of wheat. And I had seen 
three birds of magnificent plumage, cardinal gros- 
beaks, father, mother, and son I took them to be, 
for two kept together — a dull red-brown one fly- 
ing close upon the wing of a gloriously brilliant 
fellow; while the third, smaller, conspicuously 


240 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


crested, gorgeous, would sit at times alone, pen- 
sive, wondering for what he was brought into so 
bleak a world — he will know when he sings his 
love song next May! They slept in the thick-set 
spruce near the veranda, and their flaming beauty 
soon revealed their covert to Puss. Twice I 
switched her well, and after that, kept an open 
eye on the latticed window of that snow-bound 
green palace of royalty. 

It was a delight to me that Elisabeth enjoyed 
my life here, and loved the little creatures as I 
loved them. But we had other joys in common. 

There was the skating — miles on miles of clear 
sailing up and down the river where the ice was 
many inches thick. The school children and little 
negroes would come evening after evening to 
watch us in wonder, for we knew the intricacies of 
this invigorating sport; neither had there been 
such ice as this on the river for years and skating 
was a novelty to many of them. Some we led, 
through countless falls, to something approaching 
skill in the art. But two girls there were who re- 
fused to have us buckle our skates to them, tell- 
ing us between tears that their mothers had for- 
bidden them to waste their time in such foolish- 
ness. I would like to pinch the bilious noses of 
those mothers, and ask them which is better — 
knitted socks whose stitches have been watered 
by tears from unhappy young eyes, or ten-cent 


DELIGHTS OF A RURAL WINTER 


241 


socks from off the village bargain-counter, with 
sparkling eyes and health and happiness! 

But life offered its fullest cup of joy in the 
sleigh rides when the days were crisp, when the 
sun glowed and the earth glittered, when the pure 
air buoyed our cares far up out of reach, when our 
consciences were clear as the sky above, and our 
hearts as light as the flaky snow tossed by the 
rushing feet of the horses. Bred among the hills 
they sped up as well as down : now on hilltops 
whence were to be seen miles on miles of jagged 
outline against the eastern sky, now down into 
chilly hollows where the farmers’ houses were 
tucked away as far as possible from inspiring out- 
looks; many, in fact, turned their backs contemp- 
tuously on whole eye-reaches of sublimity, which, 
more than all else, made of them homes of beauty 
to be sought after. 

Often, as we slipped through the village, the 
bright eyes of “the Cuckoo” peeped out at us from 
behind the inn windows that were never raised 
from November to April. At times the eyes of 
“the Mole” assisted at the peeping; then, what 
volumes must have been spoken on the silliness of 
women hieing abroad on no errand when they 
would better be paying calls or darning stockings 
at home I They can pay their calls and darn their 
stockings and talk of us as they please, just so 
they do not ride with us. Think of a rush 
16 


242 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS , 

through such holy peacefulness beside an inflated 
wind-bag, that cannot get so' much as a breath 
of pure air inside, nor absorb one single glory of 
the view until all the inflating gas has oozed 
out — and this is gas self-generating ! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 

The first of February, and still intensely cold. 
Still we were snow-bound — everything was snow- 
bound. Nature seemed to have given up in de- 
spair, and sunk her tides of life down, down to 
their lowest depths. 

The moon came out these nights and lit up a 
world of silvery whiteness; and, in spite of the 
cold, we loved to walk to and fro on the ver- 
anda, and watch the rabbits hopping over the 
frozen yard, in and out among the trees and 
shrubbery. Sometimes a shadow, made perhaps 
by some bush, would set me trembling; or the 
crunching of the snow under the tread of a prowl- 
ing dog would serve to remind me that the night 
was over chilly for outdoor promenades. But my 
fears I knew to be groundless; for Mr. Lovelace 
had long since written me that my enemy was now 
held secure in the state’s madhouse. As for the 
days, they were too full for thought of trouble. 

Day after day I trudged through the deep snow 
to meet the smiling faces of the children. The 
school had prospered far beyond my fondest 
hopes. The roll, instead of diminishing as was 
its wont during the rigor of midwinter, had in- 


244 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


creased until the room would scarcely accommo- 
date the pupils; and they got on famously! I 
myself was surprised by their rapid progress ; but 
it was not hard to be accounted for: I had suc- 
ceeded in interesting them in their work, and had 
implanted in them by the promise of rewards and 
oft-spoken praises the spirit of emulation. Not 
a child in the school but now worked with some 
object in view. Those who could not hope to ex- 
cel in studies could at least strive for distinction 
in deportment, punctuality, or regular attendance. 

Then — ^best means of all to assist me — I loved 
them, which they knew intuitively; and not one 
was there who did not give me at least respect and 
willing obedience. Many loved me with a devo- 
tion that was comically pathetic, manifesting itself 
in eager endeavor to please; in imitation of my 
manner of dress, speech, * and — alas ! — oddities 
and mannerisms; and in gifts — apples, tea cakes, 
bunches of ferns or blossoms stolen from precious 
window plants, chews of gum, and offers of chick- 
ens, pups, and kittens. 

Strange to say, Elisabeth, who came to stay 
three weeks with me, still lingered. This dip into 
Nature’s unsullied whiteness so entranced her 
that she spoke of her approaching return to civil- 
ization with regret, and little pleading was neces- 
sary to induce her to prolong her visit indefinitely. 

One night, coming suddenly out on the veranda, 
I saw what looked tO' be a fox trot across the ter- 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 245 

race, and gaining the Jungle, speed swiftly away 
as if winged toward the river. This was not 
Reynard’s hirst visit, and he was no friend of 
mine; for Jemima had vanished one morning in 
January soon after daylight; and the hound. 
Ranger, striking a hot scent in the barnyard, had 
dashed boo-booing down to the river, only to re- 
turn soon, empty-handed. Therefore, calling 
Elisabeth and Uncle Isham to counsel, we ap- 
pointed the next morning on which to seek assist- 
ance of Ranger and the coon dog — Topsy’s aid 
would likely be given unsolicited — and track the 
murderer to his den. 

Early the next morning we set out, armed to 
the teeth and with murder in our hearts. With- 
out difficulty we followed the trail in the direc- 
tion of the cliff that let its precipitous sides down 
into the river back of the house. Veering to the 
right of this cliff, where the bank sloped gradu- 
ally, the trail led down to the frozen water’s edge, 
and there was lost; for, this being our skating 
station, the snow was too much tracked to admit 
of easy imprint. We could form no idea of the 
direction he had taken after gaining the ice, and 
decided to institute a careful search. Uncle 
Isham was asked to go across the river with the 
hound, while Elisabeth went down, and I up 
under the cliff to the ravine. But here trouble 
arose. The old man refused to search the oppo- 
site shore, making numerous and transparent ex- 


246 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

cuses — he had not forgotten the leopard. 
Stranger to tell, I, too, began to see no use in so 
extensive a search, and moved that we confine oper- 
ations to our shore of the river. Elisabeth 
looked us both over quickly; then, as a matter of 
course, volunteered to go herself and seek out 
the lair of the fox among those unknown fast- 
nesses. I implored her, almost with tears, to re- 
main with us; but as neither of us gave sensible 
reasons for our fears, she laughed at us, and went, 
it seemed to me, eagerly. 

“Is you skeered dat lepperd gwine cotch her?” 
asked the old man, as we stood dejectedly, watch- 
ing her skipping off toward the dreaded Hell 
Gate. 

“Aren’t you ashamed to let her go!” I ex- 
claimed. “She knows nothing of those hollows — 
she’ll get lost, and we’ll be to blame!” 

“Ise sorry. Miss — ’deed I is! but Judy done 
tuck meh obligation dat I aint gwine across on 
dat mountain, an’ Ise ’bliged ter min’ her. Why 
you skeered ter go. Missis?” 

“I’m not a bit afraid! but I’d be ashamed to 
put my cowardice on Aunt Judy if I were you — 
you are the one who is afraid!” I replied indig- 
nantly. 

“I knows,” said the old man, taking off his 
slouch and running the brim around through his 
fingers as he always did when he approached a 
sacred ground of conversation. 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 


247 


“There is nothing to know I” 

“Dat ole Sang Digger got monstrous black- 
lookin’ hyar, an’ bright eyes, an’ clean-lookin’ 
skin under dat wig an’ beard, Miss Patsy!” 

“What do you mean?” I thundered. 

“It means dat ole man ’s de hansomes’, spryes’ 
young man I ebber seen ; dat gray hyar an’ beard 
jes’ a hoax — aint you done know dis?” 

“Who told you this?” 

“Which way you gwine?” he asked, corking 
his bottle of information as suddenly as he had 
uncorked it. 

For answer I turned, and went up the way I 
had at first proposed. On reaching the mouth of 
the ravine, there, coming apparently from the op- 
posite bank, was our lost trail, or at least the trail 
of some fox; for by this time I knew well the un- 
swerving line of footprints. It left the ice and 
ascended the ravine until within a few yards of 
where my Grotto lay above. Here it disappeared 
at the edge of a huge snowdrift that piled the 
ravine at this place, for here .a shelving rock of 
limestone broke the gradual ascent by raising the 
ravine-bed some six or eight feet perpendicularly. 
Many a time had I stood upon this overhanging 
rock, keeping well to the projecting boulders, for 
here the gray trickster was wont to surprise the 
thoughtless brooklet into a most undignified 
plunge headlong, spreading her lace-trimmed 
skirts in quite unladylike fashion. I had also- 


248 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Stood below, and had tried, ever so slyly, to creep 
behind the tumbling brook, for the leaning rock 
suggested a cozy hiding place somewhere under 
its shadow. But she had splashed me too regard- 
lessly. Now she was one sheet o-f silvery ice-foam 
down to where she was lost in the drifted snow. 

On examining carefully about the skirts of the 
frozen cascade, I noticed that the snow had been 
considerably agitated. Digging away the snow, 
it was soon found that beneath it the ice had been 
broken away; and there, extending back under 
the rock, was a cavernous hole, the den of the 
fox. One thing that had at first prevented my 
guessing his retreat was this: the trail had stop- 
ped several yards below, before the snow had 
deepened in the recess. It was not hard to sur- 
mise the truth. In leaving his den, he had bur- 
rowed his way underneath to where the barrier 
was sufficiently thin to permit his springing clear 
of it; but in entering, knowing the exact location, 
he had fixed his feet against the frozen crust where 
the snow was shallow below, and had jumped 
square into the mouth of the den. 

Calling to Topsy, who was rushing aimlessly 
about, as is the way with dull-scented dogs, I led 
the way; and we set to work clearing the snow 
and ice from the front of the cavern. Once well 
in, it was with difficulty that I restrained Topsy 
from rushing headlong into the very jaws of the 
enemy. The place was so big and black and shad- 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 


249 


owy that I feared for the small morsel of spunk 
and perversity; for how many foxes, wild cats, 
bears, or what not, might there not be standing 
with open arms to receive him back in that grim 
dungeon? One thing was peculiar about the 
place: the rock cavern was not itself far in- 
reaching, but on one side — to the left of, the en- 
trance — ^was a second opening somewhat elevated 
from the floor of the first. It seemed to lead off 
into the hard-clay bank, and had been recently 
opened though the rocks that lay about showed 
that, in some time long past, clay had been used as 
a daubing to hold them in place, proving thus the 
hiding place to be an old one and in long disuse. 
The opening seemed to lead back into infinity, and 
I could easily have entered, creeping on hands and 
knees; but the thought of crawling through a 
black, unknown subway to jam head-up against 
I knew not what nest of snarling varmints made 
my very blood freeze; and, thinking of such a 
predicament, I backed hastily toward the snow- 
drift and stumbled over a stone. 

This stumble was unfortunate for at least one 
of us, for it released Topsy, who dashed headlong 
into the dark unknown, and wedged on, by faith 
and nerve rather than by prudent foresight. I 
listened to his “Yap — yap,” growing fainter and 

fainter, until the “a a” was scarcely audible — 

then there was silence. Calling loudly, and wait- 
ing long, I at last grew chill in my under-ice pal- 


250 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ace. Then, scrambling out, I hastened home, 
whither Uncle Isham had long ago- preceded me. 
Elisabeth, to my surprise and dismay, had not 
yet returned. 

Not a word of this adventure did I relate to 
anyone, for a sudden conjecture flashed through 
my mind. There was no time now, however, for 
thought of but one thing; for a larger trouble 
loomed before me^ — where was Elisabeth? 

For an hour — two hours — I paced the floor in 
an ever-increasing terror of anxiety. Something 
had happened, for she cared too little for solitude 
to wander in voluntary exile a whole morning 
among those snow-buried ridges. Uncle Isham 
had gone to the mill ; even had he been home, the 
chances were small that he would have consented 
to go alone to seek her. So, unable to endure the 
suspense further, I hastened down to the river and 
across to where we had seen her enter the mouth 
of Hell Gate. 

There were her little shoe-prints leading 
straight back up the gorge. A short distance up 
she had struck the beaten path made by the Sang 
Digger, which, as there were no deviating tracks, 
she must have followed straight to his shelter. 
Strange too, after my warning, she should follow 
so confidently this unknown way. With a sick- 
ening fear of I knew not what, I hurried on, 
stumbling, slipping backward, and making poor 
haste in spite of my eagerness. The path kept 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 


251 


to the ravine-bed — straight on up to the high rock 
that blocked its progress ; and, spite of my vow to 
the contrary, I stood once more alone on the spot 
where, three months before, my life had been 
saved by one against whom I even now cherished 
a bitterness in my heart. But the path, instead 
of climbing the ravine-side as before, now led 
straight ahead to an opening in the left-hand 
angle of this wall and the ravine-side — an open- 
ing just large enough to admit a man’s body, 
stooping. 

I remembered the foxes’ den that we had dis- 
covered up this same ravine that long-past sum- 
mer. This cave the boy had not forgotten; and 
now, needing a place of hiding, had robbed Rey- 
nard of his home, compelling him to seek refuge 
elsewhere. The hole had been closed on that day 
in the autumn, or else the dazzling waste of white 
about on this morning rendered its dark mouth 
now easier to be seen. 

Creeping close up to the entrance, I listened 
for voices. For some moments I heard nothing, 
and was resolving to search for her elsewhere, 
when the voice of Mr. Lovelace broke the silence. 

“He is asleep at last, is he not, Elisabeth?” 

So she was there! Regardless of discovery, I 
knelt by the hole, trembling with a nameless terror. 

“Oh, John!” broke from her lips after a silence 
in which his question had received no audible reply, 
“you have been so good to us, so heroic, so' noble ! 


252 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


We do not deserve this sacrifice of all your powers 
and usefulness in life! You must stay here no 
longer — indeed, you mustn’t!” 

“ ’T will not be for long, I fear, Elisabeth,” 
answered her companion. “Do you not see how 
much weaker he is to-day? He no longer takes 
nourishment, and speaks to no one.” 

At the sound of those words, and their revela- 
tion of the identity of the dumb girl, there came 
over me a wave of such bitter anguish that I sank 
to my knees, while my inward cry for help found 
speech in a low moan of pain. For a time all 
was still within save the weeping of Elisabeth. 
Then she asked: 

“Did you call the physician?” 

“Yes, and told him all. He says that the strain 
is killing him, and that unless mental relief is 
found ere long, there will be no need for our pro- 
posed return and surrender when the weather per- 
mits. The physician, the minister, and myself, 
urge him to return at once and throw himself on 
the mercy of the law now that the wave of feeling 
against him has doubtless ebbed; for that — even 
death itself — were better than the daily living 
death of remorse and cringing fear he now suf- 
fers.” 

“Oh, no, no, John !” cried Elisabeth in an- 
guish. “Not that — Oh, not that! Think of the 
ignominy of it to one of his sensibilities, and in his 
station! Think of his mother — of me! There 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 


253 


is another way — let him stay here, and me with 
him. Here we will rely on the infinite mercy of 
God — there, the cruel justice of man will crush 
him ; if death o’ertakes him here, perhaps it were 
better — poor Warren!” 

“ ’T is the Hand of God on him now, Elisa- 
beth,” answered John Lovelace; “ the just, 

inevitable retribution for sin. Is it not Eden-old 
that man must reap the fruit of his sowing?” 

“At least he cannot go now, and I will stay 
with him; ’t is my duty more than yours. Will 
you never listen to me in this?” 

“Hush, child,” he replied gently. “In no way 
can I ever repay the debt I owe your mother, and 
you — (” 

“You owe us nothing!” cried Elisabeth. 

“Was your brother a — friend of Pat — Miss 
Grigsby?” he asked, his voice eager, entreating. 

For a moment she was silent, and I learned 
afterwards that in this moment Elisabeth fought 
the crucial battle of her life. 

“She was an acquaintance, I think,” she 
answered at last in a low, choked voice. 

“Thank God for those words, Elisabeth!” said 
her companion in the tone of a man who felt a 
process of slow torture at last ended. “I had 
wondered — she is so beautiful, so fascinating — ” 

“No, John — ’t is an injustice; is she not my 
best friend?” 

“What woman could have wrought this evil!” 


254 the beckoning heights 

the man burst out In a fury of indignation. 
“Would I could see her that I might tell her that 
it is such women as she who turn Earth’s Eden 
Into Hell, and, knowing whom, men lose faith in 
the sex. He will not speak of the affair nor men- 
tion her name, neither will you nor Jim Murray 
tell me, but I well know that a woman’s hand was 
in this mischief, and some day I propose to face 
her — !” 

(I put my hand to my throat with a gesture of 
suffocating agony, and rose to flee; but I could 
not, and, sinking back, this time fell prone on my 
face in the pure snow that seemed to shrink away 
from my touch — the dart with which I had wan- 
tonly pierced the hearts of many had at last turned 
its sharp sting Inward.) 

“ ’T is folly to implicate any woman in this, 
John,” said my dear, loyal Elisabeth. ” ’T is true 
that the quarrel arose out of an Insane love that 
he bore a certain girl whose name it is unnecessary 
to mention, and who is far above reproach. And 
because she seemed to favor his suit, he became 
jealous of any man to whom she showed the least 
attention. He suffers now the punishment due 
for yielding to his unrestrained passions — poor 
brother!” 

With supreme effort I staggered to my feet, and 
stretched out my hands as in a terror of darkness 
and Intermingled lightning; then, as if striving to 
fulfill some forgotten obligation, I turned, and in 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 25 5 

some way that I could not remember afterwards, 
reached home and crept into bed. 

What a horrible throbbing pain tore my heart ! 
Over and over I repeated his words as a process 
of slow self-torture, while through my soul they 
pierced as into the victim’s flesh pierced the red- 
hot iron of the inquisitor : “It is such women as 
she who' turn Earth’s Eden into Hell, and know- 
ing whom, men lose faith in the sex.” Then 
there would come before me the face of the man I 
loved, only to rise far above me and vanish, leav- 
ing in its stead the face of another, whose eyes I 
had thought to see no more on earth, and whose 
trembling, sin-scarred soul approached even now 
perhaps in fearfulness its last great mortal change 
there in that cave on the mountain. 

While I lay in this frame of mind, Elisabeth 
entered my room in her usual sprightly manner 
and humming a tune. On seeing me in bed, she 
hushed her noise and came to my side. I feigned 
sleep, for somehow I was unable just yet to face 
her. Then she went over to the fire and sank 
wearily into a rocker, leaning her head on her 
hand. Watching her, I saw that her face was 
white, her eyes hollow, and under them black cir- 
cles were traced by the hand of suffering. “I can 
stand it no longer! I must tell her!” she moaned 
to herself. 

“In God’s name, Elisabeth,” I cried, unable to 


256 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


control myself longer; “what is there tO' tell, and 
why did you go — there !” 

She rose to her feet in surprise, while I, spring- 
ing from bed, ran to her, and, dragging her down 
into the chair, threw myself beside her — weeping. 

“Oh, Patsy!” — her arms were about me, her 
tears mingling with mine. “Did you not know? 
Warren is alive — I have just come from him.” 
Then, forgetting her own sorrow at sight of my 
uncontrollable grief, she drew me up close to her, 
and fondled me as a mother would, kissing my 
bowed head. 

“He is — ?” I got no further. 

“ — ‘the Sang Digger’s daughter’,” she finished. 
“He is ill; he cannot — last — long, he — ” a dry 
sob choked her, and I could not speak. “I have 
visited him there for weeks — ^^ever since one morn- 
ing in December, when John Lovelace, meeting 
me by the river, revealed himself to me, and took 
me to him.” 

“Why did you not tell me?” I asked; for it 
was a bitterness to me that she had thus deceived 
me, keeping from me that which concerned me 
so vitally. 

“You know, Patsy,” she answered simply. 

“And you know the — ‘Sang Digger’?” I fal- 
tered. 

“He is my second brother,” said Elisabeth 
quietly; and I raised my eyes to read the cause of 
the sudden softness that had crept into her voice 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 257 

as she spoke these last words. But she looked 
away from me out through the window, and went 
on as if there were nothing for me to read in her 
beautiful, tender eyes. 

“Have you never heard us speak of ‘John,’ the 
boy who saved Warren’s life from drowning here 
in this river many years ago? Mother had come 
to the mountains for our health; and after that 
incident, she took the boy home with her, en- 
tered him in school, helped him through college 
and the law school and gave him a start in life. 
And he” — she went on dreamily — “he has been 
nothing but a blessing from God to us — so good, 
so thoughtful, so clever — so different from poor 
Warren! We were proud of him — Mother and 
I; but Warren was jealous, because of this, and 
because of his popularity and bright prospects. 
So we left the city, in which he was a leading 
young lawyer, and pitched our tents in your east- 
ern city. 

“After that awful night, hearing of our trouble, 
John left his home, ostensibly for extended travel; 
and, searching Warren out in his hiding place, 
arranged a disguise for both, and took him 
away — where, not even we have known until I 
chanced upon him there by the river. Mother is 
still in ignorance of his hiding place, for we fear 
that, in her eagerness to come to him, she might 
betray him into the hand of the law. It has been 
17 


258 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


for our sakes that he has done this, resigning the 
candidacy of an enviable office to which his friends 
urged him, and notwithstanding he thought best 
that Warren throw himself on the mercy of the 
court; but we could not bear the thought of the 
probable result, as public feeling ran high against 
him.” 

As I listened to this story of his life whom 
Elisabeth had never before dared to speak of to 
me lest I guess her secret, my heart sang over and 
over, spite of its bitterness: “I did not guess your 
secret, but — did I not feel your worthiness? — Oh, 
Gogaphy !” 

“And you never recognized Warren?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, no, no!” I cried. “Think you I could 
have lived here in careless ease, — with him there; 
suffering, dying — and never have gone to him, 
nor told you, his sister? — Oh, Elisabeth!” I got 
up and threw my arms around her. “Tell me, 
does he speak of me — does he despise me?” 

“No, Patsy, he loves you as madly as ever. 
For this reason I have feared to tell you lest you 
go to him, and thus open an old wound for which 
you have no cure. Not even to John have I 
spoken of what you were to Warren.” 

“Why, Elisabeth?” I asked. 

“I could not,” she replied simply. 

“Why, Elisabeth?” I asked again. 

“Because — ” she faltered, “ — because I could 


A CHAPTER OF DISCOVERIES 259 

not pain him. Warren told me, — besides, it was 
easy to guess ; he loves to speak of you and those 
days he passed with you here that summer.” 

I turned my face to hers in an agony of appeal. 

“Don’t, Elisabeth — don’t — I cannot bear it! 
Am I not to blame for your brother’s ruin I 
Have I not died a thousand deaths? — could re- 
morse and sorrow kill — and — now — I” 

She held my trembling little body close, caress- 
ing me. 

“Could I love you thus, dear, had you caused 
his ruin — you poor, poor child? ’T was his own 
insane jealousy, and his consciousness of being un- 
worthy of your hand, that aroused in him a sus- 
picion of fickleness in you; though I, his sister, 
say it — he was not worthy of your hand, Patsy.” 

“I would have married him, Elisabeth — I had 
promised; but I knew not what love was — Oh, 
Elisabeth!” 

“ ’T is better to know it not than to love in 
vain,” she answered me, looking away to the 
window. 

“Elisabeth !” I cried, divining with the eye of 
love, and seeking to look into her face, “you have 
loved — you do love somebody — him?” 

“You ought to be very happy, dear,” she 
answered me with a gentleness that awed me; 
“for, oh Patsy, he is most worthy!” 

Again I seemed to hear his bitter words : “It is 
such women as she who turn earth’s Eden into 
Hell, and, knowing whom, men lose faith in the 


26 o 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


sex.” Then, it seemed that he, himself, stood 
before me tall and straight and silent as my love 
pleaded before him for its life that was so dear 
to me, and as I pleaded, turned from me to the 
outstretched arm^ of Elisabeth. 

“I? I ought to be — happy!” I almost 
shrieked; ‘‘I — happy!” 

Then she took me up as one takes up a little sick 
child, laid me. gently on the bed, and left the room. 
A few minutes later she peeped in, to see if I lay 
quietly. She was dressed for a walk, and though 
she said nothing, I knew that she was off on an 
errand of mercy. 


CHAPTER XIX 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 

Late that afternoon, knowing that I must, I 
dressed and came downstairs tO' look after certain 
Saturday duties. I had forgotten Topsy, and the 
strange cave discovered in the morning, until Dilly 
hunted me up, and exploded her troubles into my 
already overcharged ear. 

“Miss Patsy, I jes’ likes ter know what come o’ 
dat pesky dawg, Topsy; I aint nebber knowed 
dat dawg ter miss de grace, let alone a meal o’ 
vittals, ’fore dis.” 

“He followed me hunting this morning, and no 
doubt is still persevering in well-doing.” 

“Miss Patsy, dat dawg ’s dead!” 

“Why on earth do you think so?” I said, a little 
hastily in an endeavor to conceal a start of sur- 
prise. 

“Kayse I keeps on bearin’ ’im rantin’ an’ 
screechin’ down in de bowls o’ de earth sommers. 
Now, I don’ perten’ ter know whar de dawg 
Kingdom Come is, but I does know dat if dey fol- 
lows dey vocashuns like dey say we all ’s gwine do, 
den Topsy ’ll be ’bliged ter spen’ he time barkin’. 
La, Miss Patsy, I sutiny does hope dey aint gwine 
reside close ter we all!” 


262 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Motioning me to follow, she led the way out 
into the back yard. Sure enough, I heard a de- 
spairing yelp, far-off, muffled, that seemed to issue, 
as Dilly said, from the very bowels of the earth. 
It was Topsy, calling loudly for help. His voice 
seemed to come from no spot in particular; 
though, on putting my ear to the ground, I could 
hear it — now toward the back-yard fence in the 
direction of the ravine, then seemingly lost be- 
neath the foundations of the old house. I no- 
ticed, also, that his barks never went beyond a 
certain spot toward the fence — something here 
seemed to block his egress. 

“He is in the cellar, Dilly — run and look,” I 
said. Then, when she had gone, hastening to the 
back fence I called Topsy, who answered joy- 
fully, coming my way along his underground cor- 
ridor. If there were a secret dungeon or witch- 
hole about, Dilly was not to know it, neither were 
Uncle Isham and Aunt Judy; for, besides seeking 
to preserve the traditions and honor of my family, 
I had no mind to be left at this season with cook- 
ing, house-cleaning, milking, feeding, and wood- 
chopping, all on my inexperienced hands. 

Dilly did not find Topsy; and, as I had in- 
tended and arranged, she did not even hear his 
voice. 

“You were right,” said I mournfully, my ker- 
chief to my eyes, when she again appeared above. 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 263 

“that is Topsy’s ghost — do you notice the sepul- 
chral quality of his voice?” 

“ ’Deed I does, Miss,” she wailed, following 
my example in irrigation. “ ’Deed I does — poo’ 
dawg !” 

Fortunately, Uncle Isham had not yet returned 
from mill, nor Aunt Judy from a shopping tour 
about the village ; so I hastened, ere it be too late, 
to insure secrecy. 

“Dilly,” I said, “come upstairs — I have some- 
thing for you.” 

Once there, I produced the first thing that came 
my way. It happened to be a silk shawl of value, 
and one I had not dreamed of giving away. 

“You can have this,” said I regardless, “blue 
does not become me.” 

Dilly stared in open-mouthed wonder, as well 
she might. 

“Dis — fur — me! La, Missis, I kyarnt jes’ 
grasp de signification — blue ’s yo’ mos’ becomified 
color!” Then after some moments of eloquent 
admiration on her part I said, as an afterthought, 
as she prepared to bear the treasure off to be 
sported at future woodpile levees: 

“Suppose we tell the old folks nothing about 
Topsy’s ghost; they might be nervous about it.” 

“You shorely don’ think Ise gwine tell dem 
ignorfied coons dat! Uncle Isham ’s jes’ fool 
’nouf ter take dat shovel o’ his’n an’ dig up a 


264 the beckoning heights 

whole Paradise o’ yelping ghosts. I’se got more 
gumpshun den dat!” 

That evening when Aunt Judy called Topsy for 
his dinner, I heard Dilly say: 

“Taint no use wasten href on dat dawg; Miss 
Patsy done gib ’im ter Jack — he got dat pesky.” 

“Needn’t come ter me coughin’ up a lie like dat, 
gal! aint you done know dat de inventshun o’ 
cruelty ter critters is de Missis’ hobby-horse? She 
leastways aint gwine let no low-down nigger like 
dat Jack hab no pet o’ hern ter meek a bone-sack 
outen — taint her morals.” 

She came at once to me to learn the truth. 

“Dilly is right. Auntie — he ’s gone; but perhaps 
he ’ll come back.” 

“Fo’ de Lawd!” gasped Aunt Judy, stumbling 
out backwards. 

I went about stealthily that evening and lis- 
tened. Poor little fellow 1 he was now under the 
library ; but so far down, and the floor was so 
thick, that his voice, hoarse and weak by overmuch 
exertion, scarcely reached me. I put my mouth 
to the floor and called him; and his answering 
whine, so joyful, so hopeful of the help that never 
came, brought tears to my eyes. Little innocent 
sacrifice he was, offering up his life for my salva- 
tion; for it now stood revealed — the secret pass- 
age, the underground dungeon, the tomb of my 
grandfather, the hiding place of the Goblin 1 

The house stood on a knoll which sloped slight- 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 


265 


ly in front to the Jungle, and to the river at the 
back. The cellar extended under the back half 
of the house, around which half the stone founda- 
tion rose to a height of several feet from the 
ground because of the slope to the river. The 
library, and across from it, the parlor, rested 
almost on the ground, and under them was no- ex- 
cavation. 

I went into the cellar back of the library, and 
listening, could hear him here and there under the 
library but much deeper down than the floor of 
the cellar. Then calling, I could hear how he 
made frantic efforts to climb upward toward my 
voice, only to fall backward with pitiful yelpings. 
Thus it seemed that the passage extended under 
the floor of the cellar, and, reaching the dungeon 
near its top, had let the little fellow down sud- 
denly to the bottom, the only means of safe ap- 
proach to which was, no doubt, by ladder. Then 
I searched carefully about the library — there was 
no clue, no trap-door. I peered behind the old 
portraits, and besought my grandfather above the 
mantel to show me the secret pass into that char- 
nel-house where even now his bones must be 
crumbling. But his face, encased in a metal 
frame — sombre and ponderous, — looked benignly 
down upon me from its high vantage, and told me 
nothing. There must be but one entrance — the 
one in the ravine; and that would not have been 
found had not the old man opened the long-closed 


266 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


door in the cave-side, and, being forced to leave 
unexpectedly, had been unable to reseal it. 

That evening Elisabeth insisted to Dilly that I 
would not require her services, and decked her out 
for a dance to be held in “Dark town ’’down by the 
river. Dilly was surprised at this delightful turn 
in affairs, and I was distressed; for we had only 
that morning convinced her that a dance in Dark- 
town was beneath the notice of the cream of 
Mooretown’s blacks. My reasons were of a 
more private and selfish order, and were two: 
first, Dilly and Aunt Judy’s “east rolls” were quite 
too popular already; then, and more weighty, 
there was always a chance of Dilly’s meeting the 
man, to wash, iron, and cook for whom she would 
willingly resign her regime of bossdom with me. 
But I said nothing, for Elisabeth, who' took never 
such authority with Dilly, must have had some 
reason for her unusual action. 

I, longing to be alone, threw out many hints 
which were accepted by Cousin Peggy. Elisa- 
beth, however, refused to leave me, neither would 
she let me escape tO' my room ; so we sat together 
by the library fire. 

My companion was troubled, thinking, I knew, 
of her brother — that gay, reckless, debonair fel- 
low, who, fifteen months before, had been the ob- 
ject of her sisterly devotion and solicitude, and 
my accepted lover. I had known him only a year, 
but from the first he had given me an idolatrous 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 


267 


worship, and had exhibited fits of insane jealousy 
did I so much as smile upon others. I feared 
then, and was now sure of it, that I did not feel 
for him that love and respect that a woman should 
have for the man she is tO' marry — and herein lay 
my chief transgression. Having given him my 
promise, I would not have failed in it; but with 
shame I confess that, not loving him as I should, 
it seemed to give me a certain satisfaction when I 
found he could be goaded into a frenzy of jealous 
rage by my according even the smallest favor to 
another. I did not fully realize then — that of 
which I have since repented in sackcloth and 
ashes — that in a thousand ways known to co- 
quettes I tormented him because he was not strong 
enough to treat my idle teasing with the calm in- 
difference it merited, nor noble enough himself to 
discover the constancy of my real nature that 
burned steadily beneath a seemingly light exterior. 

Then came that awful night of the great cotil- 
lion, when I had thoughtlessly permitted the at- 
tentions of one against whom my fiance enter- 
tained a special dislike. Warren was impulsive, 
passionate, and knew not the name of self-con- 
trol. They quarreled in a hotel lobby, — over 
what, there was much conjecture but no- certain 
knowledge, and the morning papers said: 
“George Courtland came to his death by a pistol 
wound inflicted at the hand of his friend. War- 


268 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


ren Montague, only son and heir to the Montague 
millions.” 

Thus it was that the gay life of the metropolis 
bore me aloft on the crest of its tidal wave of soul- 
lessness, and then dashed me out, a wreck, upon 
the shore of my far-off green isle of refuge. And 
through it all, the love of his sister, Elisabeth, 
had glowed along my dark pathway as a radiant 
star of faith and hope and undying love ; and her 
faith in me it was that, above all else, helped me 
lift my head above the flood of remorse and shame 
that threatened hard to engulf me. 

The clock on the mantel struck the hour of nine 
when I heard a soft step on the veranda. 

“Listen, Elisabeth,” I whispered, laying my 
hand on her arm, which trembled violently. 

“I will look,” she answered quickly; then, ris- 
ing, she went to the door, opened it cautiously, 
and spoke to somebody : 

“How is he to-night?” 

“He is resting — Jim Murray is with him,” said 
the voice that was now always with me. But I 
grew suddenly cold, as with a nameless fear, and 
looked wildly about for a way of escape. 

“She is in there — good-night!” whispered Elisa- 
abeth ; then I heard her ascending the stair softly. 

He did not answer her, but his quick step 
sounded in the hall and at the library door. I 
rose to my feet and stood before the fire, trembling 
violently, my hands clasped behind me, my brain 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 269 

whirling in a conflicting tumult of joy and an- 
guish — the struggle of my life was on. 

He came into the room and toward me, while 
from his eyes an exquisite tenderness — the first 
proud passion of a soul untainted by earth’s filth- 
pots — radiated, unrestrained, to meet the answer- 
ing light in mine. Then, seeing me grasp the 
mantel for support, he hesitated, and spoke, his 
voice vibrant with feeling : 

“Elisabeth told me that you knew, and that 
you — needed — me. I have come — Oh, Patsy! — 
do you?” 

For a moment I stood still, while fear, remorse, 
and the resolutions born of discretion trailed their 
unwelcome shapes off into the shadows, and the 
floods of Lethe flowed over that waste track of the 
past, shutting out, too, all future vision. Then 
with a glad cry, a piercing agony of joy, I called 
his name, and throwing out my arms, ran to him 
through the flickering firelight. 

Of this hour in my life words fail me to speak. 
I seemed to have come on my earthly pathway to 
some high eminence whence there stretched out 
before me the Land of the Fruition of Earthly 
Longing: fairest sense-beguiling flowers shook 
out their soothing fragrances; soft breezes whis- 
pered of a bliss on Earth preferred to Heaven’s; 
and there vibrated, on that high ether, strains of 
sweet, selectest melody. Thus catching the vision 
of an immortal happiness on which no mortal may 


270 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

look and live, I saw not the chasm between, on 
the brink of which I tottered. 

We stood together in the fire-glow, his arms 
about me, his lips caressing my hair, which came 
no higher than his shoulder. 

“My darling,” he murmured, “my joy stifles 
me ! Can it be that I, whom life has tossed so 
turbulently, am now to enter my haven — can it 
be?” 

“My love — my king!” I cried, “if something 
should part us — 1” 

“Hush!” he said, putting his hand over my 
lips. “Nothing can part us: not death, nor eter- 
nity sever love — ’t is as the eternity of God — 
deathless.” 

“I am not worthy of you !” I tried to tell him 
in my poor, weak way. “You do not know the 
blackness of my heart, its past soullessness; know- 
ing all, you will abhor me !” 

He raised my face to his, and looked long into 
my eyes: then he kissed them both tenderly. 

“True, beautiful eyes — mine,” he said softly. 
“They tell me that my childhood’s ideal has not 
failed me through these years of illusiveness. 
Once, ’t is true, I had a lurking fear born of a 
lover’s jealousy; but that, Elisabeth dispelled.” 

I drew from him, shuddering from head to foot 
as if the death-pang were on me, and stooping, 
warmed myself at the fire. How wildly I strug- 
gled there with my heart to tell him all and throw 


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IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 


271 


myself on his mercy I But it cried out in an agony 
of yearning love: “Not yet — not yet!” 

“Tell me of your early life,” I entreated, call- 
ing him to sit beside me on a sofa. And there, 
side by side, my hand in his, my tears sometimes 
speaking in sympathy when my tongue could not, 
we trod together that thorny path his young feet 
had pressed whose rights were equal with mine to 
a life of luxury. 

“My first recollection,” he said, “is of a home 
in some city, and of my beautiful and gentle 
mother. I remember, too, of another person who 
lived with us, and who caused my mother much 
sorrow. This person, I know now, must have 
been my grandfather, though it is my mother 
alone that I remember with any definiteness. Some- 
times she would weep for hours at a time, and, 
putting her arms about me, would speak lovingly 
of my father, who died during my infancy, and 
would call me her little only helper. How well, 
even now, I feel the swelling of my young breast 
as I offered to place myself between her and the 
world! But she would tell me that to help her 
best I must be thoughtful, gentle, and unselfish, 
and become a noble and useful man in the world. 
Now I know that she feared that some of my 
grandfather’s blood, flowing in my veins, would 
work ruin in me. 

“One day she hastily packed her trunk, and 
with what money she had stored, we left the city, 


272 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


and traveled, it seemed to me, for an eternity. 
At last, getting off at a village, she procured a 
room, and set about earning our living with her 
needle. Those were happy days to me; and my 
mother cried less and seemed cheerful. But my 
young eyes could see how thin and white she be- 
came, until, when on windy days we walked to- 
gether, I would hold tightly to her for fear the 
wind would blow her away. 

“One night, after she had been in bed for days, 
she fastened her locket about my neck; and, sob- 
bing, held me close, telling me to think of her, to 
wear her locket always, and to look at it when I 
was troubled or lonely, or was tempted to do- what 
she and God had forbidden. In the morning she 
was dead, and my little feet trod then their first 
Gethsemane. 

“After that, I was sent to some asylum where 
there were many little children together. We 
had enough to eat and to wear and were kindly 
treated, but there was no one to love us, and many 
of us would cry at night for our mothers in 
Heaven. 

“Then one day a man and woman came, and I 
was called in to see them. The woman was not so 
pretty as my mother, nor so dainty ; but she patted 
me kindly on the head, and asked if I wished to go 
with her to live among the beautiful mountains. 
They brought me here where you found me that 
summer years ago. I was not more than six or 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 


273 


seven perhaps; but was taken into the family as 
general utility boy, being taught by degrees to 
wash, scrub, milk, garden, — gaining thus by in- 
cessant toil a shelter and enough clothes to cover 
my body. The people were kind in their way, but 
were hopelessly plebeian, having no' ideals in life, 
and no ambitions further than to eat, to sleep, to 
be clothed, and to gossip With their neighbors. 
You may perhaps imagine how I suffered who had 
been, until a few months before, wrapped about 
by the love and tender care of a gentle mother, — 
But do' not think that I now regret those days of 
hardship — they were the making of me. They 
taught me endurance, humility, self-control, per- 
severance, and best of all — they brought me yoii^ 
who, with your fairy face and manner, your proud 
little ways, your ideas of what a boy should be- 
come in life, and your kind heart that spurned me 
not because of rags and ignorance, first planted in 
my soul the resolve to conquer my environment, 
and rise to your level. How my whole dwarfed 
nature opened and grew under the warm, congen- 
ial rays of yours ! and though I was a ragamuffin 
and you an aristocrat, how much more to my 
liking were you than any I had known since my 
mother left me !” 

“Look at that portrait, Gogaphy,” I said, point- 
ing to my grandfather’s face over the mantel, that, 
looking down upon us, reflected the serenity, of a 
18 


274 the beckoning heights 

purposeful life. “I have often thought of late 
that, though you lack the inheritance, the best of 
our ancestors is centered in you and lacking in 
me.” 

“He is—?” 

“My grandfather, and that — ” pointing to the 
lovely bride face beside him, “ — that is my grand- 
mother, Patsy, for whom I am named.” 

He looked at them long and silently; then he 
buried his face in his hands : 

“And I — the offspring of his murderer — dare 
thus to sit with you beneath their smiling faces !” 

Throwing my arms around him, I drew his 
head down to my breast, whispering : 

“My lover is the sum of their perfections — a 
nobleman, and my — king!” 

“I must tell you what I know of that crime,” 
he began, after a silence between us. “After hav- 
ing been convinced of our relationship by the re- 
semblance between your father and my mother, as 
shown by our lockets, and learning from you of 
the fate of your grandfather, I questioned Dr. 
Worthington, an old resident. He told me much 
of my ancestors and their doings, though knowing 
nothing of the part played by my grandfather in 
the death of yours. After this I questioned the 
old man freely, and this I find to be the correct 
version of the affair : 

“Our great-grandfather’s first wife, the daugh- 
ter of an Englishman who had to do with the im- 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 


275 


portation of indentured servants, was a beauty, 
but possessed of an evil temper and unlovely dis- 
position. Her son, my grandfather, inherited all 
of his mother’s evil nature; he was willful, re- 
vengeful, and unforgiving, from childhood. As 
he grew to manhood and to old age, with him 
grew his infirmity; until now, bowed down by 
years his distorted body cages a soul as black and 
irredeemable as a devil’s in hell. But how so 
corrupt a body could have begotten so fair a flow- 
er as my mother is enough to baffle the compre- 
hension of all save an adept in hereditary influ- 
ences. She seemed to shine as a bright, solitary 
star through the night of her setting, receiving her 
physical, mental, and moral endowments from a 
source back of her father — her grandfather. 

“The son of our great-grandfather’s second 
marriage, James, inherited from his mother a rare 
charm of soul — in fact the combined excellences 
of both parents centered in him as they were lack- 
ing in his half-brother. He inherited also a con- 
siderable fortune from his mother, and from his 
father the homestead — now yours — which was 
forfeited by his elder brother because of the lat- 
ter’s wild life and irregular habits. 

“There was no daughter; but a niece, Patsy, 
of whom you have spoken to-night, had made her 
home with her uncle from early childhood. She 
grew from a bud of rare promise into the fairest 
flower of the countryside: ‘The lovely Patsy’ 


276 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

she was called; and her outward perfection did 
but image the purity of her untainted soul. Many 
a gallant for miles around knelt in the meeting- 
house and worshiped, the while dreaming his 
heaven to be in the approving light of her eyes. 
Wooers came from the gay capital and even from 
overseas ; but she heeded them not, and gave her 
heart into the keeping of her cousin, the gallant 
James Grigsby. They were married here, and 
she became your father’s mother. 

“Their happiness was unsullied, save for the 
bitterness of the elder brother who had also loved 
his cousin with all the intensity of his brute nature. 
Rage and thirst for revenge stamped their seal 
upon his heart; he was seldom seen about his 
wonted haunts. Then one day, after long wait- 
ing, the opportunity offered; the demons of hell 
came to his aid; and, in a demoniacal fury he 
slew his brother — ^where or by what means I know 
not.” 

“And I, — ” I interrupted him, “can show you 
the entrance to his sepulchre — to-day it claimed 
a living victim — listen!” I stooped, and putting 
my face to the floor, called “Topsy — ^Topsy?” 
A weak whine answered me. 

Then as he walked the room, peering, as I had 
done, into every crevice for a possible trap-door 
or secret spring — for my grandfather had disap- 
peared from within this room, — I told him of the 


IN WHICH IS A SACRIFICE 277 

morning’s adventure and begged his aid in saving 
my little pet from a horrible fate. 

It was not until he left me, late that night, that, 
there came to me the full realization of what my 
life would be henceforth without his love and the 
security of his presence. It was as if a traveler, 
lost, and famished for water, at last stretched 
forth his hand to dip from some bubbling spring, 
which, or ever he tasted, sank beneath the scorch- 
ing sands about him. What lesson was it the 
will of the Invisible Pity that I learn in this es- 
sence of agony? Was it the lesson of humility, 
of self-forgetfulness, of my dependence on a Help 
that was not of man? 

With a bitter cry for that help which I must 
have and live, I threw myself prone upon the 
floor, my heart dead within me. 


CHAPTER XX 


WHICH IS A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 

On the twenty-second of February, a holiday, 
Mr. Lovelace and I met by appointment at the 
ravine’s mouth and proceeded on a tour of in- 
vestigation. 

While I waited within the cave, my companion 
entered the secret corridor armed with a pistol 
and lantern, and made his way back until his 
answering halloos were lost in the distance. After 
a time, however, he returned, dusty, cobwebby, and 
disappointed. Having passed the narrow en- 
trance, he had found that the corridor grew wider 
by degrees until its height was such as to permit 
of an almost upright position. A hundred yards in 
he had come upon a huge iron door, firmly encased 
in rock and securely locked. It must have been 
to this door that Topsy had come, ere he fell into 
the dungeon to find himself sealed in a living 
tomb. But how had he gotten in? No doubt he 
had found it slightly ajar, and, nosing it open in 
his haste to be at the enemy, he had caused it to 
rebound into its iron socket. Could we open it? 

I collected keys of every size and description: 
none would fit the keyhole. Then with what tools 
could be found for the purpose, we tried to pry 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 279 

off the lock, but in vain, for age and dampness had 
incrusted the whole door in an unyielding armor 
of rust. Neither was it possible to loosen the 
door from its holdings, for the passage at this 
point had been drilled through solid rock into 
which the iron gate had been immovably im- 
bedded. 

So there was nothing to be done for poor 
Topsy. Had it not been for the resulting pub- 
licity, I would have called a locksmith, or torn up 
the library floor, or dug an entrance beneath the 
foundation of the library — any way to disentomb 
him. But there were many about — even under my 
roof — who could keep no secret; and the horror 
of a family skeleton held up thus to the greedy 
gaze of the public checked my yearnings to save 
my little pet. 

I could hardly bear to think of him waiting 
patiently in his tomb for his mistress who was now 
for the first time to fail him, in his bitterest ex- 
tremity. I rarely entered the library, until one 
morning, putting my ear to the floor by the closed 
door, as I had done day after day, there came no 
whine answering to my call. Then, opening the 
door, I rushed in; and putting my face to the 
floor, called brokenly, while bitter tears fell upon 
that unmerciful partition. There was no answer — 

On the next afternoon — for troubles, like 
crows, roost on me in flocks — “the Mole” and 
“the Cuckoo” came to call, happening in at that 


28 o 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


uncouth hour for callers, 2 P. M., when a woman 
with any sense of the decencies about her likes 
best to nap, to work, or to be alone — certainly 
not to giggle and gossip with two impossible 
people. 

It was Saturday, and an ugly day: not caring 
to be out, I had set about doing what I often do 
on rainy afternoons. Suddenly I was awakened 
from peaceful slumber by the sound of loud 
voices — there seemed to be at least six — in the 
hall below. I sprang from the bed, my kimono 
flying, my hair doing the same, and reached the 
door, thanking Providence that I had been in 
time, for a well-known nasal was wafted up- 
ward: 

“Yes indeed — I ’ll go right up.” Then another 
voice : 

“Guess she ’s takin’ her nap; she needen’t mind 
us.”* I knew her well also. There had doubtless 
been much burrowing and pecking about the vil- 
lage lately, the results of which were to be worked 
off on me. 

“Mebbe youse right, ladies, you knows bes’,” 
began the welcome voice of Dilly, to whose 
strategy I looked hopefully as my only way of 
escape. “I aint ’sposed ter hab de privilege youse 
got; but I dassent bus’ in on Miss Patsy at dis 
hour — dis am de Missis’ holy hour.” 

“Holy hour!” gasped the Cuckoo. 

I heard the Mole’s footsteps ascending the 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 


281 


stairs — she would see for herself how holy the 
hour was! The Cuckoo remained below to ques- 
tion. 

A wild impulse seized me. I turned the key 
with a loud click, scrambled with much noise 
through the window upon a tiny balcony, and 
from there by way of a back stairway down to the 
veranda below, from which it was no trouble to 
enter the sitting-room by way of a window. The 
kimono was not unbecoming, neither were the flow- 
ing locks; so I sat by the grate toasting my toes 
and listening as the Mole burrowed vainly against 
the firm lock above, and as the Cuckoo heard from 
Dilly of my leviathan pieties. 

During this hour I was reported to read the 
Scriptures, which was often true; to pray, which 
I fear was not often true; to send off fabulous 
gifts to the needy in China and everywhere; to 
read missionary calendars and periodicals; and to 
study such worthy productions as Baxter’s “Saints’ 
Rest”, though Dilly called it “Baxter’s Saints’ 
Bunyon”, thus confounding it slightly with an- 
other and equally praiseworthy volume. 

That the Cuckoo had no Dilly at home was evi- 
dent from her loud-voiced credulity: “Ah!” “Is 
that so?” “Why people say — ” — thus she 
punctuated Dilly’s lies. 

“Ladies,” I called, when the Mole had again 
appeared below, “pray come in and warm your- 
selves.” I pushed back the door and stood be- 


282 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


fore the abashed ones, my frozen smile of wel- 
come ill concealing the rage that boiled within. 

Dilly raised her eyebrows slightly, but was 
ready. 

“Miss Patsy, I tole de ladies you was alius oc- 
cupied in secret at dis season, an’ would dey step 
in ter de fire an’ warm dcyselves whiles I notifies 
you.” 

“I am never so busy as to keep my friends wait- 
ing, Dilly,” said I reprovingly, as they offered 
their lips for the regulation kiss. 

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked as they stood 
awkwardly, looking me over. 

“Youse blockin’ de do’. Miss,” said Dilly, who 
thinks she must boss me nowhere so much as 
in the presence of other women. I motioned her 
with great show of authority to retire, at the same 
time removing myself from the entrance, for in 
truth they could not have passed me. 

“I went up to your room — it was locked.” 
Mrs. Williams’ tones bristled with interrogation. 

“Oh I the one on the right hand, front? That 
is the haunted chamber. I often hear scramblings 
about that room when I listen through the key- 
hole.” 

“Good Gracious!” she gasped. “Didn’t I hear 
that same noise — something knocking and shuf- 
fling — then, footsteps?” 

“Footsteps!” I reapeated anxiously. “I ’ve 
never heard them — what can they be?” 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 283 

Mrs. Williams looked at Mrs. Martin; then 
both looked at me. 

“People say — ” began the latter. 

“Let ’s go and listen!” interrupted the former. 

“Please don’t!” I entreated, “it makes me 
nervous.” 

“No,” agreed the bird. “Let ’s sit here and 
chat.” And chat they did, till by beaking and 
scratching and nosing, they had well-nigh robbed 
every nest in the countryside of its most sacred 
secrets. 

“Have you heard of the two spies in the vil- 
lage?” asked Mrs. Williams, in a tone which in- 
dicated this to be the goal of their previous efforts. 
I wondered if they noticed the quick tension of 
my muscles as I strove to bring my startled self in 
check. But I answered carelessly : 

“What have spies to do with us, pray, here in 
our peaceful corner?” 

“Jim says they asked him about the Sang Dig- 
ger, and offered him a dollar to show ’em where 
the old man lived. Jim wouldn’t cross the river 
but he showed ’em where he comes down out of 
Hell Gate.” 

“Folks say the Sang Digger is a refugee. I cer- 
tainly hope them spies will find him,” chimed in 
Mrs. Martin, soothingly. 

“The minister and Dr. Worthington visit 
them — and — your — friend — ’ 

“Certainly they visit the Sang Digger!” I re- 


284 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


plied warmly. “Why should they not? The 
dumb girl is ill — she needs help.” 

“Poor thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams. 
“Wonder if she can drink buttermilk!” 

“I might send her a glass of quince jelly by the 
minister,” added Mrs. Martin. 

“Those men might not be spies — Jim just said 
they seemed powerful inquisitive about that old 
man and the girl.” 

One rose to examine some photographs on the 
mantel. 

“It is early — why hurry?’** I asked as anxiously 
as was possible, and springing to my feet at the 
first word. 

“Miss Grigsby, could I get a start of yeast from 
you? I haven’t been out before for months.” 
This was from Mrs. Williams, who, Dilly said, 
came as regularly and faithfully to the Nunnery 
for yeast, as she went on the Sabbaths, with her 
six, to- church for the meat and drink of the gos- 
pel and gossip. 

Just then the knocker sounded loudly; where- 
upon both ladies reseated themselves to await re- 
sults. It was Mr. Murray, who was now much 
at home at the Nunnery; and his free step soon 
announced him outside the sitting-room door. 
There was no way of escape, for the room had 
but one door, and to depart through the window, 
besides being ungraceful, would reveal my recent 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 285 

manner of approach. So I sat still, while the 
silence was little short of fierce. 

The ladies, in their haste to be reseated, had 
deposited themselves on a sofa back of the door 
and waited in anxious anticipation. 

“Miss Grigsby?” called Mr. Murray softly 
from the hallway. 

The Mole winked her bright eye at the Cuckoo ; 
the Cuckoo nodded her beak at the Mole. I said 
nothing in answer, but looked the quintessence of 
idiocy. My face burned; with one hand I 
grasped the tumbling tresses, and with the other 
clutched the decollete neck of the kimono, then 
its lower front where some half-yard of elaborate 
lace underskirt sported coquettishly in and out of 
its folds. The minister opened the door. He did 
not see the ladies. He did not seem one bit 
abashed by the sight of flowing locks and forbid- 
den lace. Straight he came to me. He took one 
hand — he would have taken two had not I gained 
sufficient strength to gesticulate wildly with the 
other. 

“What an adorable little Jap — !” he exclaimed. 

“There — there!” I screamed, pointing wildly. 
“Can’t you speak to folks!” 

Then when he — an abashed and confounded 
shepherd — turned to encounter two of his most 
termagant fleeces, I left them to do with him as 
they deemed prudent, and fled to the ghost cham- 
ber above. 


286 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


When I returned below stairs a half-hour later, 
Mr. Murray had gone into the library and sat by 
the grate awaiting me. The gloom of an early 
winter twilight was gathering without, hastened 
by the clouds that thickly blanketed the sky. The 
rain kept up an incessant patter. The long- 
dreaded thaw — dreaded this year because of the 
unusual depth of snow, and thick ice on the 
river — was at last upon us; for at this season of 
the year, the river, from its dignified flow within 
its confines, had been once or twice known to burst 
its banks, and, raging far afield as an uncaged 
wild beast, to leave devastation in its wake. 

I glanced anxiously at the clock. It was near 
five, and Elisabeth, who went to the mountain 
early that morning, had not yet returned. I felt 
that something was wrong, for Mrs. Williams’ in- 
formation concerning the spies troubled me; and, 
standing by the window peering out into the 
shadows for a glimpse of Elisabeth, I made poor 
shift to entertain my caller. Perhaps it was the 
reflex action on him of my evident distress ; but he, 
too, seemed ill at ease. For a time he walked the 
floor; then he came and stood beside me. Once — 
twice I looked at him, and discovered his eyes fixed 
upon me, and in them a look I had seen before, 
when I had thus surprised him. Then I looked 
away, fearing what I had long feared; for, with 
woman’s intuition, I knew that he loved me. 

Suddenly he turned to me, and taking both my 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 


28 


hands in his, looked into my face. He was much 
agitated, and I could hear the beat of his heart. 

“Miss Grigsby,” he said, his voice quivering, 
“do you know what I have to tell you — what I 
have had tO' tell you since that morning in the li- 
brary? I can endure it no longer. Day after day I 
see you, and you have so filled my life that I can no 
longer live without you. Night after night I lie 
through the watches, thinking of you, weaving the 
threads of our lives together into one long silken 
strand that cannot be broken. I must know the 
truth — tell me, do' you love me?” 

“Mr. Murray,” I said, my lips trembling, “have 
I given you reason thus to claim me?” 

“Only by your gentle courtesy, your confidences, 
your kindly consideration. But I have known,” 
he added hoarsely, “that it must be. I have borne 
your image in my heart for years— before I ever 
knew you ; and God, who has heretofore shed the 
light of his favor upon me, will not now fail me.” 

“And is the desire of your heart always His 
will?” Tasked. 

“I cannot live without you,” he murmured, and 
would have drawn me to him; but I could not 
permit this further deception. 

“No, no !” I cried shrinking from him. “My 
dear, dear friend, that I so much respect, that I so 
much admire, — I cannot deceive you 1 Would 
God I could love you, but I cannot — oh, I can- 
not!” 


288 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


He stood straight and silent before me, and his 
face showed deathly pale. And now I was to see 
how a soul that is worthy passes through deep 
waters, leaning on a Strength that I knew little of. 
There in the twilight shadows he drained his cup 
of bitterness tO' the dregs; and, as another once 
of yore, turned to comfort me. 

“Poor little girl — how I have grieved you, who 
am not worthy to mar one moment of your sweet 
life ! Forgive me I” 

“Can you forgive I sobbed. “I would 

rather die than wound you.” 

“I have nothing to forgive, little woman, but 
much to remember of your sweetness and purity — 
oh, Patsy, you were my idol!” Then he did what 
such men as he alone can do — he took me in his 
arms, and pressing a kiss upon my forehead, was 
gone. 

I sank upon the settle, weeping; but started up 
again, my tears frozen at their outlet. I heard 
something under me, a queer grating noise, then a 
tap — tap, as when one strikes cautiously on 
iron. It was unmistakable : it came from the old 
settle. 

This settle, an unaccountable adjunct of the 
library’s furnishings, resembled as near as any- 
thing else a huge, oblong chest, upholstered in 
dark green cloth of heavy texture. It stood in the 
chimney corner to the left of the fireplace, and ap- 
peared to have been built into the wall, filling up 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 289 

the entire interstice. I had at first taken it to be 
a huge receptacle, perhaps of family treasure, and 
had searched for a hidden spring by which to 
reveal its interior. But neither had the workman 
employed about the house, nor had I, found any 
clue to its secret. Then I thought to remove so 
unwieldy an object from my favorite room; but, 
having been convinced by the carpenters that its 
removal might jeopardize the wall at that place, 
so firmly was it encased, I converted the settle into 
a cozy corner, piling it high with pillows. 

The sound was repeated, this time more dis- 
tinctly, as the slipping of a rusty bolt in its socket. 
Had I not now been suspicious of every spot, 
every sound in this room, I would perhaps have 
paid no attention to what could well have been a 
rat gnawing in the wall. As it was, I sprang from 
my seat with a shriek, and rushed from the ac- 
cursed room out upon the veranda. 

Mr. Murray was by me instantly. 

“Cornel” I panted. “Something frightened 
me — come !” 

He went fearlessly in, and, striking a match, 
lighted the gas. As the glow diffused into the 
darkest corners, I ventured timidly in. No one 
was in the room, and nothing seemed unusual to 
my companion. But I, who knew its furnishings, 
saw at once that all was not right. The settle had 
been piled with pillows when I left the room — 
19 


290 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


now there were but two left. Something else was 
not as it should be: my grandfather’s heavily 
framed portrait above the mantel was hanging 
awry. It had been shifted at least six inches from 
its equilibrium. 

Mr. Murray noticed this also; and, remarking 
that my ancestor’s ghost must have jumped down 
from its high perch tO' walk up and down its old 
ways, adjusted the picture with the long fire-poker. 
I could not tell him my fears — that a worse than 
ghost was at that moment concealed beneath the 
spot where we were standing, and that he was my 
kinsman. With what feelings of unspeakable 
dread I listened for a repetition of that sound, 
while with an overwhelming sense of human help- 
lessness I felt the cords of a relentless fate tighten 
about my throat, — the long-foreboded calamity 
spread its sable wings over. Drawing the minister 
into the sitting-room, I made him sit beside me, 
while, feeling that my burden might rest easier on 
me did I share it, I confessed to him my knowl- 
edge of the identity of the Sang Digger and his 
daughter. Also, not daring to look into his face, 
I told of the relation I had once sustained to War- 
ren Montague. 

Imagine my surprise, my supreme relief, when 
he told me that he had long known this from the 
lips of Warren himself, who, with the chivalric 
spirit of the patrician gentleman, had exonerated 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 29 I 

me from all blame, begging only that John Love- 
lace be kept in ignorance of it. 

“Why?” I asked, thickly. 

“John Lovelace is my best friend. We were 
classmates at college and the University. I have 
never known a man of so fascinating a personality 
and withal so lofty a character and so high ideals 
of what men and women should be in life, as he 
has. His ideas of women are not just the same as 
mine : while they are to me purer and gentler be- 
ings than men, I still see them to be creatures of 
frailty, capable of yielding to certain temptations, 
and therein more lovable. I have not blamed you 
for the indirect part you played in that tragedy — 
it was the inevitable outcome of the frivolous life 
in which you moved that a woman of your charm 
should be tempted to indulge in some unthinking 
coquetry, such as may have goaded that foolish 
soul to that rash act. I have watched you well, 
and your actions to me have proved such frivolity 
contrary to your nature. I have seen in you in- 
stead a noble unrest and a striving to live above 
that hollow past — Oh, Patsy, I would help you!” 

My tears of gratitude fell upon the hand I had 
taken in mine: 

“ ’T is you who have shown me the better way!” 
I answered him. “You have been the best friend 
of my life — you and Elisabeth,” I added softly as 
I thought of her sacrifice of love, whereby she re- 


292 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


signed to me that which had perhaps been hers 
had she spoken the truth against me. 

“She is an angel,” said Mr. Murray quietly. 

“But why have you not — oh, why has not some- 
body told — him?” I cried, burying my face in my 
hands. “He will find it out — I must tell him, 
then — then — !” 

“Perhaps it had been better,” he answered me, 
his voice strangely choked. “But he was my 
friend, and I threw the tempter from me; but I 
was tried, God only knows how much — and I did — 
not — know — How long have^ — you — loved 
him?” 

“Always, I think.” 

Then I told him of the spies, and of how I 
feared, since Elisabeth had not returned, that some- 
thing had gone amiss.^ At once he rose to go to 
the help of his friend — his friend, his love for 
whom he suffered not even the thought of this 
last great bitterness of unrequited love to cloud. 
To his astonishment — and to my own, it must be 
confessed — I rose to accompany him; and though 
he protested vigorously, he was now to learn, if 
never before, how solid a wall of resistance is 
woman’s obstinancy. 

“I have a reason — a good one,” I replied gaz- 
ing calmly into his troubled eyes, but seeing 
nothing; for beneath my feet I trampled those 
eternal forces of life — joy and hope and the bliss 


A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES 


293 


of earthly affection. “Let us bring him here to 
the Nunnery until the present danger be past.’’ 
Then, as he seemed to hesitate, I continued: 
“After the spies are dispatched, he will give him- 
self up — I will see to it, — come !” 


CHAPTER XXI 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 

No time was tO' be lost, for it was now five 
o’clock. Snatching a bit of dinner lest suspicion 
be aroused, and leaving orders that no one wait 
up for us, Mr. Murray and I set out on our un- 
certain mission. 

Gaining the river, we looked carefully about. 
No one was in sight. The clouds hung low over 
the earth ; the rain fell in an ever-increasing 
drizzle ; and we heard how the wind seemed sob- 
bing a dirge through the pine tops up the black 
gorge; then, as a child at play, rattled the naked 
limbs, and went howling down the river corridor. 
Owing to the gradual thaw and the recent rains, 
torrents of seething yellow-red water, mingled with 
snow masses, ice and promiscuous debris, came rag- 
ing down the track, that, until now, had retained at 
this point its cover of ice. From every tributary 
ravine or brook-bed poured rivers of water to 
augment the awful current. The ice on which 
Elisabeth had crossed during the morning, was 
groaning and swaying under pressure of the flood 
that submerged it; and we observed how, out to 
midstream, a narrow, boiling strip of water had 
cut a track through the ice barrier, and, hugging 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 295 

all obstacles to its breast, dashed on in terrific 
haste in pursuit of further mischief. 

I shuddered — what if Elisabeth had attempted 
to cross on the ice in the uncertain twilight, and 
had plunged into that fearful current! Finding 
that to cross at this place was now fraught with 
serious risk, we went a short distance below to 
where the county bridge spliced the shores of the 
river; and though there was great danger of en- 
counter, we achieved our crossing unnoticed, and 
made our way back over a footpath that hugged 
the opposite bank. The river was yet within its 
confines, but it promised irrepressible action in the 
near future; and should it flood its banks here, all 
hope of return would be cut off, for above this 
perilous footpath the cliffs rose perpendicular. 
So there was need of haste were we to find the ob- 
jects of our quest and return with them to the 
Nunnery. 

The climb over the slippery and ofttimes slant- 
ing rocks — a misstep on which would have landed 
me into eternity by way of that awful current — so 
exhausted me, that, reaching the mouth of Hell 
Gate only to find the path up the gorge a track of 
boiling water, I sank down upon a log under a 
thick-set spruce to rest and muster courage to con- 
tinue the journey. 

It is often tO' such specks of circumstance that 
the gigantic dramas of life owe the germs of their 
existence. We were no sooner seated than we 


296 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

heard footsteps a short way above us ; a person in 
heavy boots was laboriously slushing down the 
gorge. Soon two distinct treads could be distin- 
guished, and a low mumble of voices. Our sus- 
picions aroused, we crouched behind the low- 
hanging boughs of the spruce to spy upon them. 

On they came ; and their careless walk and con- 
versation proved them confident that no listening 
ears would be abroad on such a night. We dared 
not peep from our green window to see them, but 
their speech betrayed them to be men apart from 
the little world of Mooretown. 

“This gorge is well named, ’pon my word, part- 
ner ! If this place be not hell-favored, and a good 
foretaste of that which awaits him and his kind, 
then I ’m a dub !” said one in careless tones as they 
stopped near us regarding the river. 

“An ugly stream that, and promises greater in- 
terest soon. If our plan carries to-night — and 
carry it must for I am sick of this game, in spite 
of the boodle — there is no time for bush-beating,” 
replied his companion. “See yonder animal — a 
cow, ’pon my honor! — careering down, leg over, 
there to midstream? Something ’s doing above, 
friend I Think you we can make it back to the 
cave by eight, sharp?” 

“Gad, we can! and the fox in chains and off to 
the station ere trouble brews in this quarter. Luck 
has come our way with this storm, ’pon my word 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 297 

it has. The badgers will hardly look for callers 
this night, think you?” 

“I heard a woman’s voice in that hole — I don’t 
like the mixing of sweetmeats in this soup.” 

“One would think his soup were overflavored 
with such sweets already — Warren Montague 
should know now to let women alone, God 
knows!” 

“ ’T is a hard lesson to learn, friend — a hard 
lesson!” chuckled the other as they moved down 
the path to the bridge. 

We looked at each other in the heavy gloom, 
and the hand on my companion’s arm trembled. 
In feverish impatience we waited until the sound 
of their voices was lost around the curving bank; 
then in one breath we gasped: “Eight o’clock, 
sharp!” 

“It will be folly to remove him to the Nun- 
nery,” said the minister. “Already they know his 
hiding place; besides, to cross that bridge means 
almost certain detection. It ’s as well that the law 
have its way, and that he pay the penalty, what- 
ever it be — it must be, hard as it will be to bear — 
think of John, and his days of wasted ability!” 

“But he is ill — he cannot go as he is,” I pro- 
tested. 

“Once he consents to give himself up, his sick- 
ness will leave him — it is purely mental; but to 
live on as he now lives is a thing impossible — the 
Furies devour him.” 


298 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


But did I consider the rights of law and justice? 
Ah, no ! I saw a face in the hollow eyes of which 
lurked the fear of the helpless beast fleeing from 
a deadly foe; I saw the shrunken frame in which 
crouched a spirit, broken; I saw — oh God! — the 
frowning scaffold, up whose steps they stagger, 
drawn by the hand of unforgiving man, who come 
not down until they enter the presence of One 
whose law is Love, and with whom Justice is swal- 
lowed up of Mercy; I thought of his sister, so 
dear to me, and of his mother; and I thought, 
and most tenderly, of that other, and of his sacri- 
fice, to accomplish which the call to fame and the 
worship of thousands had been cast aside: of all 
these I thought as we rushed up the rough way 
blinded by more than darkness, and I vowed to 
save him. 

Our garments were drenched; the slimy leaves, 
wet mosses, and slippery rocks, gave us many a 
tumble on to sharp stones ; the soughing dripping 
boughs of the underbrush stung our faces; the 
wind howled above us ; and sometimes the stricken 
limb of a tree fell crashing to the forest floor be- 
side us; while up the gorge the black shadows of 
night crept out from their hiding places, and, to 
welcome our eager footsteps, threw their chilling 
arms about us. 

Reaching the cave’s entrance, we paused; but 
hearing no voices, stooped and entered. A nar- 
row passage, through which one had to crawl, led 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 299 

back to where a flare of light beckoned. And then 
a wonder unfolded itself: we entered a room some 
twenty-five feet in length and fifteen in width, with 
a ceiling so high that a tall man could not reach 
it. In this room was every evidence of a comfort- 
able living; a cheerful fire leaped up from an ex- 
cavation in the far end, the smoke escaping 
through an upward slanting fissure; the walls 
were of gray limestone, much creviced; and into 
these crevices were stuck pine torches to assist the 
fire in the necessary illumination. Arranged 
about the cave were a few pieces of furniture, bar- 
rels, and boxes for the storage of provisions and 
necessities. On a table, overspread with a cloth 
of green denim, lay some heavy law-books, a few 
others well but inconspicuously dressed as the re- 
fined should be, and a well-worn Bible; two or 
three small prints of celebrated paintings adorned 
the walls, and a photograph of Warren’s mother 
hung over the table. 

There were two beds of hemlock boughs spread 
over with heavy blankets; and on one of these, 
dressed in his own clothes, lay Warren, sleeping 
restlessly. Elisabeth sat beside him holding a thin 
hand in hers. Mr. Lovelace sat at the table writ- 
ing. 

At the sight of us Elisabeth sprang to her feet 
with a smothered cry; while Mr. Lovelace, com- 
ing forward quickly, took both my hands in his, 
and said, looking at the minister: 


300 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


“What does this mean, that you permit her to 
come at this hour — in this tempest?” 

But I broke from him, and rushing to Elisa- 
beth, threw my arms about her, without daring to 
look toward the bed. 

“You have given me such a fright, dear! I 
could not wait, not even until he should come to 
search for you — I thought — I feared — ” 

“I could not leave him,” she answered, looking 
at me, her eyes hollow with suffering. “He has 
been raving; some premonition of ill — I know not 
why — has haunted him to-day; and when I have 
thought to leave him he has clung to me until I 
couldn’t — Oh Patsy! would it not be a mercy if 
death claimed him before — ” 

Then I looked at Mr. Murray beseechingly; 
and he told them of the gossip concerning the 
spies ; of how we, fearing for them, had formed a 
plan to remove Warren to the Nunnery until 
danger should be past; and of how, hurrying 
hither to accomplish this, we had learned of their 
designs to thwart which there was now need of 
wit and haste. 

Then I proposed a scheme which had been for- 
mulated on my way up the gorge, and was this: 
that Warren be taken to the shanty on the moun- 
tain, and left in charge of the three, while I, in 
the dress of the dumb girl, remain to meet the 
spies and frustrate their plans, for they would 
scarcely fail to recognize my sex. 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 


301 


“Never!” exclaimed John Lovelace brusquely. 
“If you remain then I remain with you.” 

“Perhaps they will know you,” I argued. “Per- 
haps, having learned of your connection with the 
family and your disappearance at the same time, 
they will search for you in the person of the old 
Sang Digger; ’t will be unsafe.” 

“We shall see,” he replied. “In the meantime, 
let ’s to the task, for it seems all there is left to do, 
as they doubtless guard the river path. The re- 
sult is uncertain, yet one likes not to be taken as a 
rat in a trap. ’T were wiser, indeed, to surrender 
ourselves voluntarily, which we will do in good 
time, — but not here, to give them the laugh and a 
fat sum for our capture.” 

The two men, with what articles they deemed 
necessary to the occupation of the shanty, set out 
at once, leaving Elisabeth and me in charge of 
Warren and the cave. I set about arranging a 
suitable toilet. Removing and concealing my hat, 
rain coat and tailored suit, I loosened my hair, 
and, donning a waist and skirt that hung on the 
wall, found there was nothing else to be desired, 
for my small frame, lost in their amplitude, pre- 
sented the pathetic aspect of a slum child sporting 
the donations of charity. 

“Patsy,” called Elisabeth from her brother’s 
side, “have you looked at him? Would you recog- 
nize that wreck to be our handsome Warren?” 


302 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


Together we stood arm in arm regarding him, 
our tears falling upon his couch. 

“God knows, Elisabeth,” I sobbed; “I gave 
him no just cause to doubt me ! Those accusations 
have been cruel, unjust!” 

“Do I not know this, Patsy? Time upon time 
I warned him to beware of his groundless jeal- 
ousies I” 

“And if to defend him, I say that I was to 
blame — that I goaded him to desperation by my 
faithlessness — that I knew of the other’s design to 
kill him — if I say these things, will you still be- 
lieve in me, and some day, in the far future, will — 
you — tell — ^John — the — truth ?” 

She held me close in her arms and kissed me ten- 
derly. 

“I will never permit that, Patsy — not while I 
live.” 

Suddenly, as if under the influence of my pres- 
ence, Warren opened his eyes, and, seeing me 
bending over him, sat up and stared wildly into 
my face. 

“Warren,” I whispered in an agony of pity, as' 
I looked into his changed face — a face I had once 
thought so handsome — “do you know me, War- 
ren?” 

He grasped my hand, and pressed his hot lips 
to its coo-1 surface: 

“Know you ! My God, Patsy — know you 1” he 
almost shrieked. 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 303 

I drew back, shuddering, from his touch, a sud- 
den sickening aversion overwhelming me. Had I 
once looked into those eyes with approval? Had 
those hands — those blood-stained hands — caressed 
me — those lips breathed love to my listening ear? 
And was it for love of me that he, in his weakness, 
had fallen and was now reduced to this — this mis- 
erable creature in whom was no longer strength 
for resistance, will to overcome, nor courage to 
meet a just punishment? Could I now, looking at 
him, doubt that man must reap the fruit of his 
sowing? And was I — was I to escape? Oh, ye 
Furies of vengeance, no. 

Feeling my repugnance as I shrank from him, 
he sprang from the bed; and escaping to a far 
corner by the fireside, sank down upon his knees, 
beating his breast, tearing his hair, raving: 

“An outcast — a vagabond — a viper, — she 
shrinks from me! Is there then blood on my 
fingers! Is its mark on my forehead! Oh, ten 
thousand demons of Hell, could I but escape you ! 
Is there no God in Heaven^ — ^no God of mercy — 
no refuge for me! Oh, justice of Earth! you 
stretch out to me the gaunt arms of the gallows — 
you clasp me, beckoning from those black cavern 
recesses — you call in the creaking of those trees on 
yonder mountain ! Oh God, is there no mercy 
no rest, and sweet forgetfulness !” 

His frenzy spent, his strength gone, he sank 


304 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


down until he lay prone upon the stone floor of 
the cavern. 

Elisabeth threw herself down upon the couch of 
juniper, torn with anguish. I could stand it no 
longer. I rose to my feet, tottering, and went 
over to him. I lifted the head with its mass of 
glossy curls and held it in my arms as I would have 
done a sick child. I smoothed back his hair and 
called upon him to listen to me : 

“Warren, have courage: our God is not a God 
of wrath, but of long-suffering and infinite mercy. 
It is not His will that you suffer thus, expiating 
daily in ten fold bitterness that sin for which you 
have suffered enough. He has sent me to you to- 
night to help you — to save you from yourself — 
will you listen to me?” 

He looked up eagerly, a pitiful inquiry in his 
eyes. 

“Do you remember that you saved my life? I 
have not forgotten it nor has a higher tribunal of 
justice failed tO' reckon it in your favor. Sure as 
there is a God of Justice, so sure will your just 
deserts be meted you, and this is what I would 
urge: 

“You escape not by remaining here, dying this 
daily death of remorse. You must learn the les- 
son of submission to the penalty of a broken law — 
a law made by the Great Law-giver, for the 
breaking of which the inevitable penalty must be 
endured by man. There is no way out of it, but, 



( ( 


‘ Is there blood on my fingers 


y y y 


FACING ^04 






IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 305 

oh, Warren! let me beseech you, learn this lesson 
here — in this life! Submit to that here which 
must else be borne yonder in that place of hope- 
lessness ! It will not be so hard as you fear. Gain 
once the victory over yourself, and strength will be 
given you to return and free yourself and those 
about you from this torture. Your voluntary sur- 
render will not be without its reward: the tide of 
public feeling will turn in your favor, and I — I 
will go with you and help you; I will testify for 
you, for there is much that I can and will say — of 
how he threatened you; of the pistol he carried; 
neither will I spare myself, Warren; I will tell 
them all, and more, — of how I led you both on to 
love me — of how I goaded you — of how — ” 

“Oh, no, no, Patsy!” cried Elisabeth, springing 
to her feet and running to me. “It is all false — a 
horrible injustice! Were Warren himself, he 
would not listen. Think of the disgrace; of how 
willingly the world shifts such burdens on women’s 
frail shoulders ! You have had enough — take not 
more than your share !” 

“He must go back, Elisabeth; and who is to 
help him if not you and I ! I fear it is already too 
late, for he can no longer help himself. He has 
his mother and you — who is there to care what be- 
comes of me or if — my — name — ^is — ” 

“Oh, Patsy!” she entreated, clasping my waist. 


20 


3o6 the beckoning heights 

‘‘am I nothing to you? There will be another 
way — think — of — John !” 

Then an arrow pierced me: “John! what am 
I_to— him 1” 

“You are everything to him, Patsy — he wor- 
ships you.” 

“Elisabeth,” said I, and my own voice fright- 
ened me; “Elisabeth, do you envy me now?” 

She laid her soft hands upon my lips : 

“Love never dies, dear; and he loves — you.” 
She turned from me, and, going slowly back to the 
couch, fell beside it upon her knees. I did not fol- 
low her. 

Warren had risen to his feet as we talked thus 
together, and was pacing to and fro before the fire. 
As I approached him he stopped before me and 
said, with something of hope in his voice: 

“Your words have set me thinking, Patsy, and 
your promised presence strengthens me. My mind 
is resolved — I will go back. I see it now; there 
is no way of escape. I have long desired, for 
John’s sake, as well as for my own, to give myself 
over to the proper authorities. But I have had no 
courage. Now can I go, for with your sympathy, 
your help, the way seems smooth — Oh, Patsy 1” 
He would have taken my hand, but I drew back 
quickly, and hastened to offer in words the only 
consolation to be given. 

“This decision is most worthy of you and your 
old self, Warren. It cannot be death that awaits 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 307 

you there— here it can be nothing else, and the 
worst of deaths. It will be a few years’ im- 
prisonment, perhaps, then freedom of body and 
conscience, and many years in which to atone for 
these lost months. My plans are already well 
laid, and are these: My school closes in two 
weeks; in the meantime you will come to the Nun- 
nery (my house), and there, by the aid of what 
comfort and cheer we are able to afford you, 
strength will be gained for the ordeal that awaits 
you; after this we will go together — you, Elisa- 
beth, and I — and have done with it. Is the ar- 
rangement not a good one?” 

“There is but one thing that troubles me,” said 
Warren. “There lurks in me to-night a fear of 
spies. To be dragged from my hiding place as a 
wild beast from its lair; to be borne in chains and 
by the strong arm of the law back to- those who 
thirst for my blood and who will gloat over me, 
paying joyfully the large bounty set on my head; 
to be held up to my old comrades as a warning, 
and my capture extolled as an example of the sure 
triumph of justice, — the thought of all this mad- 
dens me! Never will I be dragged back in 
chains I” 

Then, because I must do it, I told him of the 
spies, and of our plans to thwart them. And I 
was made to wonder at the coolness he manifested, 
who, a few moments before, had cringed in grovel- 
ing fear. In his eyes shone the light of hope and 


3o8 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


purpose; new strength came into his frail body; 
and he displayed eager interest in the plans for his 
safety, moving here and there, collecting such 
articles as he valued and destroying those that 
might betray him. Books were examined, and fly- 
leaves, bearing his name, were burned. His 
mother’s photograph he placed in the inside pocket 
of his coat, together with a packet of old letters 
he took from a crevice far back in a dark corner — 
letters that I recognized. 

By seven o’clock the men returned ; and though 
they suffered a shock on seeing the change in War- 
ren, they wisely asked no questions, and made im- 
mediate preparations to depart with him and 
Elisabeth to the shanty. 

When their footsteps had died away, and I 
realized that I was alone, I experienced a reac- 
tion of terror. A slight sound, made perhaps by 
a mouse, came to me from an unexplored recess; 
and the sound, assuming proportions equal to no 
less than the tread of the spies themselves, served 
to agitate me almost beyond control. With a 
smothered cry I fled to the entrance; and there, 
as I stooped to escape through the opening, my 
ear caught the sound of footsteps approaching the 
cave from the mountain. Was all to be lost 
through my cowardice? Was there any constancy 
of purpose in me, and the law governing my life — 
was it the law of inclination? With a cry for 
strength, I turned from that last hope of escape; 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 309 

and, going over to the fire, my mind clear, my 
head cool to face whatever might come, I waited. 

Somebody entered. Arming myself by a firm 
tension of the muscles, I turned and faced — 
Gogaphy. He came to me and took my hands in 
his. Then, seeing the terror in my eyes, he took 
me close in his arms, brushed back the hair from 
my face, and kissed my forehead, my eyes, and 
my lips tenderly. Then came to me the intoxica- 
tion that a helpless woman feels in a strong pres- 
ence. It acted as a stimulant : the blood bounded 
again over me, and an influence to forgetfulness 
came, excluding all realties, while I felt but one 
all-pervading sensation — a sense of security and 
the tumultuous joy of his presence. From out his 
eyes a light leaped to mine and thrilled me. And 
yet, again I tried, ere it be too- late, and while 
clinging to him, to tell him all, but he would not 
listen; kissing the words from my lips he called 
me dear and foolish names, saying that I was 
brave, and that he was unworthy of me. As for 
me, losing myself for the moment, I drifted, as 
borne on the bosom of some stream of delight, 
while visions of far-off, love-lit shores melted into 
the horizon of oblivion. 

Some moments passed thus in which the serious 
business of the hour was forgotten. Then came 
through my senses the consciousness of why I was 
there. I sprang from my lover in horror. 


310 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

“Oh, Gogaphy, have you forgotten? Time 
passes and you are here, and undisguised!” 

As I spoke the sound of voices at the entrance 
greeted us. Pressing a kiss on my lips, Mr. Love- 
lace turned from me, adjusted his mask quickly, 
and went unarmed to meet the intruders. With a 
pounding heart I stood near a chair by the fire and 
struck an inquisitive pose, while the two men, not 
waiting an invitation, pressed through the en- 
trance, and Stood glaring about on the novel scene 
before them. 

“A strange place and a stranger hour, friends, to 
seek shelter on this lonely mountain — have you 
missed your way?” asked the old Sang Digger 
with solicitude. 

The younger man moved about the cave in an 
assertive manner, that, had we not already known 
their errand, would have aroused our gravest sus- 
picions. The elder man took it on himself to 
answer my companion and went straight to busi- 
ness : 

“A strange place and hour, indeed, sir; but 
with such hours and such unchristian holes we are 
not unfamiliar. We have come in the perform- 
ance of a painful duty — the apprehension of War- 
ren Montague, who is wanted to answer for the 
murder of George Courtland in the city of 

, during the first week of December, 

190 — . We have evidence that he has remained 
in hiding here during most of this time; and. 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 3 1 1 

trusting that the application of force will be un- 
necessary, we request his immediate surrender.” 

“Perhaps your enthusiasm has misled you, gen- 
tlemen,” said John Lovelace quietly. “I give 
you leave to search my poor dwelling, however, 
and should you find him whom you seek, have 
your will with him.” 

“I hear you have a daughter — a dumb girl,” 
answered the man, casting an insinuating glance 
in my direction. “Is yonder she, standing in the 
shadows?” 

I came timidly forward that they might see me, 
and triumphed inwardly as I thought of the dis- 
appointment in store for them when they found 
before them such a feminine bit of humanity. No 
sooner did my eyes meet those of the older man, 
however, than consternation seized me, and not 
him, who stood gazing coolly into my white face. 
Our deception, so poorly attempted, was now re- 
duced to an empty farce ; for I knew the man, and 
knew him to be the keenest detective of our city. 
Most unfortunate of all, however, I was no 
stranger to him, for our homes had been but a 
block apart, and besides, I had once employed his 
aid in the recovery of stolen valuables. 

“That is calico, by gum !” exclaimed the assist- 
ant. 

But the other turned to John Lovelace and 
said: 

“Mr. Lovelace, it is useless that you and I 


312 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


bandy words. I know of you, and why you have 
wasted these months of a prosperous life in shield- 
ing a criminal. Your action in the matter has 
been suspected by many, and lauded. I, for one, 
see little use in delaying a sure justice; and for 
your sakes I regret that his surrender has not been 
a voluntary one, though I now comprehend that 
this exile has not been without its compensations.” 
He glanced at me suggestively, but I stood 
strangely calm, now that the end was at hand. 

“Your insinuations may be dispensed with, sir, 
since they concern not your errand,” replied my 
companion testily. 

“The presence of this lady happens tO' concern 
our business most vitally, Mr. Lovelace. Per- 
haps since Miss Grigsby has not forgotten her 
former interest in the young man whom we seek, 
her present interest includes at least a knowledge 
of his hiding place.” 

“What mean you, man!” cried John Lovelace, 
catching the speaker’s arm in a grip that was 
furious. 

“Your education in the particulars of that affair 
has been sadly neglected, I fear sir, if you are 
ignorant that it resulted from a quarrel concerning 
a certain young woman of whose beauty and charm 
you are perhaps cognizant also. If you follow my 
advice, young man, you will be wary of the en- 
chantress.” 

“I need no advice from you, sir,” replied my 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 3 13 

cousin with so small a manifestation of concern in 
his voice that I glanced for the first time at him. 
But seeing that in his eyes which frightened me, I 
turned to the detective, determined to end the affair 
at once. 

“Mr. Sterrett, whether your accusations of my 
implication in this matter are as just as you would 
have believe, it is not time nor place to discuss. 
But that my interest in Warren Montague still 
lives, I will prove to you by the following confes- 
sion: — It has been within the last few days only 
that I discovered in the dumb girl the person of my 
old friend ; to-night for the first time I have spoken 
with him, and I find him both willing and eager to 
return and give himself up. He is, however, at 
present too weak to travel, and I beg this in- 
dulgence of you : permit him to cross the river to 
my home, there to remain — under your surveil- 
lance if you deem best — until he regain strength, 
and until I am prepared to accompany him. I 
have promised him this in order that he have 
courage to go; besides, I have important testi- 
mony to give in his favor. Promise me this, and 
I will take you to him.” 

But Gogaphy came to me; and taking my hand 
fiercely in his, looked into my face, in his eyes a 
wild glitter. 

“Patsy I” he cried in the voice of a drowning 
man, “Patsy, what was Warren to you? — tell 
me I” 


314 the beckoning heights 

“He was my fiance, John,” I replied with that 
strength that the frailest women betray in those 
moments of torture that come their portion in life. 
“In three months I would have married him. I 
go now to be with him — and save — him.” 

“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” 

I gave him no answer. 

“I have heard,” he began, speaking slowly, and 
in a voice I knew not, “I have heard of these 
women, who please to style themselves society 
belles, and who seem the perfection of outward 
loveliness; and yet who perpetrate beneath the 
pennant of coquetry acts of deliberate cruelty and 
treachery, deadening their consciences, — lif indeed 
they have any; making and breaking lightly the 
most sacred ties of earth — they own no law save 
their vanity. Such a woman I knew caused this 
wreck, but that this woman was my — my — 
cousin — !” his voice choked. 

Involuntarily I turned toward him, my hands 
clenched lest they reach out to him in supplication, 
while the accumulated debts of a frivolous life 
paid themselves in a coin of leaden bitterness. 
And though I seemed to totter on the brink of 
that chasm that held for me the blackness of 
death, and a bitter inward cry rent my heart, my 
voice answered, full of indifference : 

“You are wise, John. Of that class of women 
to which you so respectfully refer your criticisms 
are wonders of infallibility. This condition of 


IN WHICH ARE MANY WATERS 3 1 5 

society is more to be lamented since the men, with 
whom these frivolous beings associate, are so emi- 
nently their superiors. But the tragedy lies in the 
fact that these men — rational and elective beings 
as they are^ — seem to- find satisfaction, even 
supreme delight, in the society of these despicable 
creatures. That it has been your misfortune to as- 
sociate of late with one of these is to be regretted. 
It is to be hoped, however, that no serious injury 
has been sustained thus far; and do not forget to 
be thankful that you have been thus mercifully 
preserved ere it was too late.’’ 

He sank heavily into a chair by the table and 
buried his face on his arm. But I had caught the 
look of misery in his eyes ; then, my heart broken, 
I went over to the men, who had withdrawn to 
the cave’s entrance for consultation. 

“If you will now kindly light my path, sirs, I 
will guide you to the end of your search,” I said 
quietly, passing out before them into the night and 
the tempest. 


CHAPTER XXII 


VISITING THE INIQUITY 

And now, when I have come thus far in my 
story, though much remains to be told, my mem- 
ory seems to play me false, refusing by some 
merciful trick to furnish more than a meagre out- 
line of the events that followed fast upon that 
hour in which I turned my face from the cavern’s 
mouth in the darkness and tempest of the night, 
within me and around me. 

I remember with what surprising display of 
self-control Warren stood before us that night on 
which we came upon him there in that shanty in 
the midst of his new-born hope; and how, while I 
trembled so that I could scarcely tell him, and 
Elisabeth paled with anguish, he resigned himself 
without a quiver in his voice or a wavering of pur- 
pose, saying that, since a divine strength had been 
granted him, he purposed to gO' and that quickly. 

I remember how the men urged that we re- 
main in the cave over night; and how I protested, 
giving as a reason that much distress would be 
caused by my absence, — the while vowing to cross 
alone and at my life’s risk rather than see him 
again in whose eyes I had read that which had 
stabbed me. 


VISITING THE INIQUITY 


317 


And this much, too, I remember: ere we began 
our descent to the river its menacing boom came 
to us, reverberating like the roar of distant battle 
through the night that shrouded us. Then, strain- 
ing our eyes, through the gloom we saw the 
flood — a seething expanse of foam defined against 
the glossy pall of night. The trees that were 
wont to mark the river channel now stood far out, 
breasting the current like great animals, dumb yet 
resistant. Shapeless masses wedged past as in 
terrified haste. To have tried to cross by boat 
that turbulent area would have been suicide, — 
death was rushing by in one all-reaching embrace. 

Somehow we reached the bridge — all of us save 
Mr. Lovelace, who desired to remain alone on 
the mountain; and in order to reach it Elisabeth 
and myself were at times carried through water 
ankle-deep that backed, lapping and slashing, over 
the cliff path. Somehow we reached the middle of 
the bridge, over which the water rushed a few 
inches deep ; while, hissing and gurgling in 
drunken revel, it whirled against the piers beneath 
like an infuriated giant bent on an errand of devas- 
tation. The opposite shore was lost to view; but 
the twinkling of lanterns in and out through the 
water-covered floor of the forest announced that 
many boats were abroad, keeping well to the back 
waters. We heard also shouts from the shore, 
but, knowing not a word of what they said, nor 
that they, seeing our little light, strove to warn us 


3 1 8 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

of danger, we plunged on, hoping only to reach 
the shore ere the bridge should be wholly under 
flood. 

^ Then it all came as a flash of light and a 
thunderbolt from a clear sky. As we groped 
along by clinging to the railing lest a hole in the 
submerged floor betray us to death, there loomed 
upon us from out the darkness a towering mass 
of debris — logs, rails, roofs and timbers of build- 
ings, that, locked in close embrace, were drawn by 
the demon of flood to augment its forces of devas- 
tation. Down it came upon us — that invincible 
hulk, — and, ere we could so much as breathe a 
prayer for forgiveness and pity, smote square upon 
that portion of the bridge upon which we clung. 
I remember the tremor of anguish with which the 
doomed structure gave its breast to the smiter; 
and I remember, after seeing how Warren put his 
arm tenderly about his sister, that I turned and 
looked into Mr. Murray’s calm face, myself not 
one whit afraid. He put his arm about my waist, 
saying quietly, “shall we meet it together, Patsy?” 
And then the flood passed over us, bringing first a 
spasm of fear, a moment of wild struggle for the 
life that seems so dear in the relinquishing, and 
then — blessed oblivion. 

When my ears opened to the consciousness of 
sound, it was not to the lash and roar of angry 
waters. I lay for a moment without the least sense 


VISITING THE INIQUITY 


319 


of suffering and with no vexatious memory to dis- 
tress me. My chief concern was as to where I had 
wakened. Had I entered that unknown Where 
that receives us there beyond our last great mortal 
change? Yes, surely, for there at the end of my 
earthly life I had embarked with the grim ferry- 
man upon that Stygian flood! I tried to put my 
right hand to my head : it was bound tight to my 
side. Then with the other, I found my forehead : 
it was bandaged heavily. In fear I opened my 
eyes. I lay on a white bed in a room where ?M 
was blue and white and gold — all save the person 
who bent over me striving to prevent the move- 
ment of my left arm. She was not of that form 
and color usually ascribed to seraphic ministrants; 
she was very black and also very fat. 

“Dyar, dyar, honey chile — don’ you pester 
yo’self ; yo’ ole mammy gwine git you some nour- 
ishment — youse jes’ ’bliged ter hab it, don’ keer 
what dat doctor says I” 

So after all, it was dear old Aunt Judy with her 
never-failing food supply; and I was in my own 
bed in my own room at the Nunnery I With that 
glimmer of returning consciousness came a rush 
of ill-defined memories. I started up quickly 
calling for Elisabeth. 

“Dyar, honey! dyar lam’!” coaxed the old 
woman, forcing me gently back. “Don’ you pes- 
ter yo’self, chile! Miss Lizzie ’s all right; she ’s 
in dis house — she ’s sleepin’.” She turned away 


320 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


quickly as she said this, and going over to the 
window, bent over a box of violets that filled the 
room with fragrance. 

“Who else is here. Auntie?” I asked, feeling 
that Elisabeth was not the only one of whom I 
must think, but unable to remember anyone else. 

“Dey ’s all hyar, chile; now you jes’ res’ yo’self 
whiles I goes an’ fetches de vittals.” 

I closed my eyes and she left the room softly. 
Then I sat up, and, putting my head in the hand 
that was free, strove to recall the events of the 
past night — or days and nights, I knew not which. 
Creeping out of bed, I found that though my 
knees were unstable I was able to walk. I went 
across to Cousin Peggy’s room ; no one was there. 
Then to Elisabeth’s room; it also was empty. 
After resting a moment I descended the stairs; 
and, drawn by some impulse, entered the librar^^ 

As I entered the room there was a movement 
over in the corner by the fireplace — some person or 
thing seemed to disappear down through the 
old settle. But I thought nothing of it, for two 
other objects riveted my attention: on four 
chairs before the unwarmed fireplace rested two 
caskets banked high with flowers. Then I knew; 
brother and sister had gone together to stand be- 
fore the Tribunal Bar where justice is rendered 
according to man’s just deserts — he, brave in his 
new-found strength, and trusting to divine for- 
giveness; she, in the bloom of her youth and 


VISITING THE INIQUITY 3 2 1 

beauty, to that reward which is vouchsafed the 
pure in heart. 

I fell upon my knees by her side. “Oh, Elisa- 
beth,” I cried; “best, truest friend! I it was who 
was to go with him to plead for and to suffer with 
him — I, who am not guiltless! Why am I left, 
and alone — Oh, why!” 

A slight noise from above, coming it seemed 
from the portrait of my grandfather, caused me 
to look up. I saw the great frame move slowly, 
tremble, lurch heavily to- the left, and ere I could 
escape, fall crashing upon me. I knew it struck 
my head, for an agony shot through it, a sense of 
growing numbness and fatigue overwhelmed me, 
and again — darkness and oblivion. 

The twelfth of May — my twenty-seventh birth- 
day. For some days I had been awake, under- 
standing what I saw and what was asked me of 
my physical needs, watching with interest all that 
passed about me — smiling sometimes; but my 
comprehension was in the present only, and auto- 
maticly, performing what it did because of long- 
enforced habit. For me there was no terrifying 
memory, no hopes or fears for the future^ — ^the 
past had vanished. 

On this day I had crept down into the Jungle, 
where, under a canopy of flowering dogwood, I 
threw myself upon the breast of the pregnant 


21 


322 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

earth, and pressed my cheek lovingly to that cool, 
quiet bed. It was good to feel the touch of the 
Universal Mother — to rest upon her breast who 
holds in her large bosom the buried treasures of 
the race. Her heart was throbbing with the re- 
newed joys of maternity — was I to wake again to 
spring, whom the winter of oblivion now en- 
shrouded ? 

A subtle sweet influence was abroad, — the 
breath of spring. It was wafted in odors from 
myriad bursting buds, from the fragrance of mint 
and pennyroyal and the wild cherry; it gleamed 
in a thousand eyes of swallow-wort, violet, ane- 
mones, and hepatica; it tossed the jaunty heads of 
the dandelions, and tinkled among the nodding 
ferns and sedges ; it poured vocal from the throats 
of the feather-vested choristers in the emerald 
lofts above; it flashed in heat and light and color 
over all the earth: Spring — the trumpet call of 
Nature bidding an innumerable army come forth 
of those not dead but sleeping. For there is no 
death, neither in the organic world nor yet in the 
spiritual ! 

On this morning in May, as these flood-tides of 
life stirred about me, they awakened in me nothing 
more than a feeling of supreme content that I 
could lie thus in peace and gaze as a child with 
half-comprehending look upon the beauties of 
young nature about me. A pair of catbirds, busy 
about their spring house-repairs interested me. 


VISITING THE INIQUITY 


32,3 


and I stood up to watch them. Suddenly, in the 
midst of their labors they uttered cries of alarm 
and flew anxiously about. Hearing footsteps 
hastening my way, turned expecting to see the 
physician who had watched me solicitously during 
these days when my mind slumbered. Then my 
memory, fumbling as a blind man for the knob 
of a fast-closed door, began its struggle for light. 
I knew the man who came toward me and threw 
himself on his knees before me, kissing my hands, 
then crying hoarsely through dry lips as he 
looked into my changed face: “Oh, Patsy, my 
life — forgive, oh, forgive me !” 

Never had I seen — that I remembered — such a 
look of pain in a face, and it reacted on me as an 
awakening terror of memory, — of a night — when 
was it — ^what had he been to me? Both hands 
went to my head, a chill crept over me, and, as the 
criminal wakes to the dawn that is his last, my 
mind crept out from the shadows of slumber into 
a day of death — I remembered. 

I shrank from him, while, as a mist clouded my 
eyes, I tottered and grasped the dogwood. Then 
he took me in his arms as he would have done a 
little child coming out of a troubled sleep and 
needing the mother comfort; and there, with my 
head on his shoulder, I wept tears that carried 
away with them the agony which had so often 
risen in my throat to- choke me. Was it the quiet 
strength of his presence that hushed the storm 


324 THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 

within me, or the magic of the fond and foolish 
words he murmured to soothe? With the ebbing 
of those tears it was to me as if the sun, long 
shrouded, burst forth tO' shine again in splendor 
upon my earthly pathway. My heart filled and 
overflowed with a peace past naming; I cared not 
to question nor to doubt ; the past with its horrors 
trailed its black shape off into the shadows — there 
were no fears for the future, for the path led up- 
ward where Eternal Heights Beckoned. 

“Oh, Gogaphy!” I whispered, holding his face 
between my hands and kissing the white forehead, 
for I read in his face the light of a deathless love, 
“I thought you would hate me when you knew — 
thought you hated me — on that — night ; but, oh ! 
I have — learned — so much — since then — I will 
be — better — I — ” 

But he put his hand over my mouth : 
“Don’t — don’t!” he pleaded; “I am the one 
who have learned my lesson well; I am the 
craven — you blameless I But were it ten thousand 
times the reverse, this, too, have I learned in these 
days and nights of agony — that love is Im- 
mortal!” 


FINALE 


He told me afterwards how it all happened — 
how on that night, having recovered from the 
shock to his jealous pride, and tom with contrition, 
he had rushed out to find me, and gained the 
river after the waves had gone over us. Neither 
did he spare to tell of Low happy he thought me 
to be in that hour of death rather than suffering 
in life the agony of that hour to him. Then of 
how, rushing wildly down the river, at unheeded 
risk, he came upon Mr. Murray and me — the 
minister, his arm about me, clinging to the 
branches of a tree and crying for help — myself, 
my arm broken, my head bleeding from some 
sharp contact, — insensible. The bodies of the 
other four were found next morning far down 
the track of the flood, and were brought tO' the 
Nunnery. 

Concerning the second and more serious catas- 
trophe, it was as I had feared. The top of the 
settle — held secure underneath by heavy iron 
bolts — ^was the trap-door into the underground 
dungeon. This door opened downward; and so 
firmly was it held in place by bars of iron that 
when fastened it could not be budged up nor down 
so much as a hairbreadth. By an ingenious ar- 
rangement heavy wire cables, attached to these 


326 


THE BECKONING HEIGHTS 


bolts, extended inside the wall to the large rusty 
nail that held suspended the portrait over the 
mantel. By drawing the nail, the united ends of 
these wires could be grasped; and by pulling the 
wires the heavy iron bolts be made to slip in their 
sockets. Thus lay disclosed the secret of the 
entrance to this abode of ill. The drawing of the 
bolts underneath by the old man who no doubt 
desired to convey me, as he had done my. grand- 
father, into the dungeon, had rendered the nail 
lax and had precipitated the ponderous frame to 
the floor, striking me on the temple, where now is 
an ugly scar. 

Upon careful examination another nail was 
found on the floor; and its hole discovered close 
to the one that had terminated the wires from the 
trap-door. This nail had served at other times to 
sustain the weight of the frame ; but now — an ap- 
pointed agent to accomplish my further humilia- 
tion, or else to save me from that worse fate — had 
failed of its support. 

On hearing the crash, my lover, who was in the 
room across preparing the bodies of the two de- 
tectives for their return home, rushed into the 
library, to find me crushed beneath the portrait, 
and his grandfather laughing in demoniacal exul- 
tation over me. He was bound and lowered 
through the trap-door until means could be found 
to convey him to the madhouse, from which he had 
just escaped. Seeking him later in the day, how- 


FINALE 


327 


ever, and receiving no response to calls, Mr. Love- 
lace descended the ladder which led down from the 
settle. And there, lying prone upon a heap of 
earth that partly revealed a grim skeleton, he was 
found dead, doubtless as a result of his maniacal 
frenzy. 

Thus the dungeon, built with the house, as a 
hiding place during the stormy days that preceded 
the war with England, had at last offered up its 
dead. The skeleton — upon which the maniac, by 
some strange dispensation of vengeance, had 
fallen in his last struggle, — with its fingers 
clenched, its hands and mouth bound by a rotten 
cloth, was the skeleton of my grandfather. Close 
by lay the body of Topsy. 

On that day two graves were added to the little 
colony yonder in the orchard, where now there 
rests an unbroken line of a noble house. Yonder, 
too, some day — may it now be far distant — I shall 
be laid to rest in that cool quiet bed of Earth; 
while there, above and beyond me, the Eternal 
Hills shall stand, counting the tread of the cen- 
turies that pass over me, and beckoning my child- 
ren to follow whither I have gone — upward. 



APR 6 1908 















